Pam quietly stepped out into the hallway, holding the bedroom door open for Harley before shutting it behind them.

Damian and Jo rose to their feet immediately, Jo asking: "is he gonna be alright?"

The redhead cleared her throat, her eyes flitting to Selina where she remained seated, staring blankly ahead. "He suffered a massive stroke," Pam revealed, her tone somber. "It appears he was walking down the stairs when it happened, he lost feeling in his legs and then fell. From what Harley can tell…"

"A broken leg, two cracked ribs, a broken nose and I'd throw a concussion in there too," Harley said.

Damian shook his head, the movement subtle as he turned to face the wall, placing a hand there to steady himself. He closed his fist and slammed it, so hard that the painting hanging beside him fell, crashing to the floor. When Jo attempted to place a supportive hand on his back, he prickled, gritting: "How did this happen, Jolene? You were in the fucking house."

"I don't—I don't know," Jo stammered, retracting her hand. "I checked in on him before I got in the shower, and he was—tying his tie! He was fine! I told him I'd only be a minute."

"And what?" Damian spun around. "He fell down the entire flight of stairs and you didn't hear a peep? Just went about your fucking business?"

"Jesus, Dude," Jo wiped a tear from her eye. "I was on the 6th floor, he fell from the second to the first. I'm not Supergirl."

"And what good would it have done if she had heard?" Selina murmured, her eyes glassy, unfocused. "She's not Iris West either."

A silence descended over the 5 of them, Jo gazing intently at her shoes, Damian glaring hatefully in her direction, and Selina still starring off into space while Harley and Pam watched, uncomfortable in every aspect of the situation.

"He's going to die," Selina realized, eventually breaking the silence. "That's what you meant to tell us."

"Don't be stupid, Selina," Damian snapped. "He's fine. Why else would he call the fucking witch doctor?" his dark eyes shifted to Pam, and she found his intensity…disquieting.

"Damian," she started out kindly, her voice soft. "Your Father is 85 years old. My options are limited here. I don't," Pam cleared her throat. "I don't think he called me here to save him."

"She's the vet," Selina mumbled. "He wants to be put down."

Damian scoffed. "You think Bruce Wayne is going to give up? Just like that? He fell and he's throwing in the towel? Fat chance."

"Baby…" Jo tried again, moving closer, a comforting hand outstretched.

But he slapped it away, his skin hot with rage, with betrayal. His jaw shook as he attempted to unclench it, his fist tight to his side. "This is bullshit," he spat, looking from Jo to Pam again and pointing an accusatory finger straight at her. "Bullshit."

The others watched as he stormed off down the hallway, descending the stairs out of sight.

Jo's tears turned from a trickle to a pour and she buried her face in her hands, sinking back down into her seat.

Harley sighed. "Jo, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You did what you could. That's all there is to it. It's frustrating feeling powerless, easier when you have someone to blame."

Ignoring that exchange, Selina stood up, asking Pamela: "Can he talk?"

"His communication is limited," Pam told her. "Currently, he's suffering from what's called a Neurogenic Stutter thanks to the stroke, but he would like to attempt to speak to each one of you individually. You last—that was his request."

"Fine," Selina muttered, turning around to clap in Jo's face. "Make yourself useful: go get the kids and call your brother."

With a wipe and a sniff, Jo obeyed, starting down the hallway in the same direction Damian had taken, but mumbling "maybe you guys should have let me hire a fucking butler," as she went.

Harley waited until she was gone to tell Selina: "Little harsh, don't you think?"

"She's fine," Selina contended in a tone that screamed for Harley to drop it. "Bruce went from kissing me goodbye this morning to not being able to form a coherent sentence, but Jo will be fine, don't worry."

Much to Pam's relief, Harley did drop it, starring down at her lap with something approaching shame etched into her features.

/

"Are you sick?" Delilah wondered. "Like, cancer sick? Like Mommy pretended to be?"

"Don't be stupid, Lilah," Daisy spat, her arms tight to her chest where she sat beside Terry. "He had a stroke. You don't just get cancer all of a sudden."

Bruce pointed a weak finger at Daisy, mouthing "stop it."

But she took that as further evidence of her point. "Look! He can't even talk!"

Delilah's eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed his still outstretched hand, holding it in her own. "What does Mommy mean when she says we have to say goodbye?"

"She means he's gonna die," Daisy informed her, angrily getting to her feet. "That right, Grandpa?"

Bruce nodded. "Thh—that's right. I'm ll—lleaving."

"Well it was nice knowin' ya, then," Daisy's words were choked with tears as she headed for the door. But her brother stopped her, hugging her from behind and keeping her in place.

"Daisy, please stop," he whispered into her ear. "Nana says it's OK to be sad."

"O—or m—mad." Bruce forced out. "Be mad. Bu—but…"

Terry released his sister so that she could turn to listen, which she did begrudgingly.

"Be good." Bruce finished.

Delilah laid her head down on his chest, holding his hand against her cheek. "I don't want to say goodbye, Grandpa. I'll miss you too much."

He tried his best to smile down at her, struggling to force his face into action. "Y—You have better family t—than mm—mme."

Terry came over to join them, shaking his head as he did. "No one will ever be our Grandpa again. You're the only one. I'll be a good Batman for you," he smiled proudly—though his blue eyes sparkled with tears. "Don't worry, I will. Strong and brave just like you and Daddy."

Bruce nodded in appreciative understanding before looking over at Daisy. "And what—," he had to close his eyes to focus on his words. "What will you be?"

Daisy blinked, that question catching her 8-year-old self by surprise. "Smart," was the answer she finally decided on.

Bruce watched her a few moments longer, unblinking. "Make me proud," he addressed that statement to all three of them. "Mm—make me proud."

/

"Damian," Jo was trying to stay calm. "I know you're pissed. I get it. I'm sorry, but please don't take it out on your Dad. You have to say goodbye to him."

"Why?" he demanded. "Christ—people live like that all the time! Your Mom's in a wheelchair, she didn't ask for assisted suicide, did she?"

"You know it's not the same," Jo said. "Damian, this kind of thing…it ruins people."

"Obviously," Damian scoffed, standing in front of the window and looking out onto the grounds of his family's house. A house that would now soon belong to him, he realized, and his stomach tightened as he did. "If he's willing to kill himself over it…"

"I mean letting him go without saying goodbye," Jo corrected. "Don't—fuck, don't be too proud. Please. Imagine if it was you in that bed downstairs. Imagine you're 85, already spend every day in pain, and then this happens and after providing for your family for years, you now need something from them. One thing. And Terry says no. Terry says he won't because you're weak for choosing the 'easy way out'."

Damian shook his head, watching her reflection in the window and hoping she didn't notice. "This isn't about me and Terry. This is about me and my Father and I will handle it how I please." He noticed her body language shift behind him, and when she spoke, her voice had lost the sympathetic undertone.

"Alright, look," she tried to breathe. "Damian Wayne, you spoiled fucking brat, you are 39 years old. You are married. You have three children. Your petulant sulking days are over. You are no longer that angry little boy who refused to call your Dad by anything other than Bruce and refused to acknowledge Selina altogether. You are an adult, and every action you take sets an example for our kids. So if you can't do it for him—can't do it for Bruce, how about you do it for me? Or better yet, do it for the fucking kids. Show them how an adult man deals with things that are difficult. You need a punching bag? Fine," she spread her arms wide, making eye contact with him in the glass. "Here I am. Do whatever the fuck you want. I'm pretty sure I can take it. Or put on your Batsuit, take the car or the plane or the fucking boat and make a few mistakes. I promise I won't judge you. In fact, after tonight, there will be no one left to judge us—ever. But fuck, Dude, give your Father the time of day. Hold his hand, give Selina a hug, step up to the fucking plate. He's your Dad! He loves you! Step outside of yourself for two fucking seconds, like you regularly do for me, and be his son."

But he couldn't. No…no couldn't. His Father was Batman. His father was Bruce Wayne. His father was not some old man ready to give up on his life. If this was truly what he wanted, if he truly wanted to leave them like this—leave his family—then the real Bruce Wayne was already dead. No sense saying goodbye to whatever husk of a man lay in that bed.

Jo shook her head when he didn't respond, and after a long pause she gave up. "Fine. But just remember all three of your 8-year-olds did what you couldn't." she turned for the door of their bedroom, shouting: "Bruce should have let me hire a fucking butler!" before slamming it behind her.

/

Selina sat quietly in the chair beside the bed, though she didn't feel either of them were suffocating in the silence. Bruce just gazed at her, his head laying lazily on the pillow, taking her in like he was committing her features to memory—despite her confidence that neither of them would be able to forget the other's face if they tried.

Even like this, even while lying on his death bed, he didn't look weak. Didn't look frail. This was still Bruce—her Bruce. The young man at the party, the one underneath that cowl. Her designated driver, the man sitting beside her as she shook and vomited, getting that poison she'd let control her for so many years out of her system. Still, he'd chosen her. After all that, despite it, because of it…her best friend, her greatest adversary, her guardian angel, the love of her life…Bruce Wayne.

"I was telling stories," she murmured, breaking what had felt for a moment like a state of suspended reality. "When Jo called…I was telling Harl and Pam about me, about the man…" she smiled faintly.

"$500," Bruce said, trying to mimic her expression, but only succeeding with half of his face.

Selina chuckled. "That your Harvey impression?"

"Nn—not bad?" he phrased it like a question.

"Not bad," she agreed, running her hand distractedly up his arm. "Though you were always better looking."

Bruce nodded in agreement. "It's h—how I knew P—Pam was ll—llying."

Selina laughed before sitting back in the chair, her fingers dancing off of his arm. "I told them that story too. Left out the part about us hooking up in the bathroom afterwards to get out our Pam-induced sexual frustration…just figured I didn't need that going to her head, especially since she's finally got a handle on her ego."

"W—what else?"

Selina had to swallow down the lump in her throat at the realization that he just wanted to hear her speak. He'd wanted to see her last so her voice would be the last one he'd hear; the last conversation he'd have would be with her. "I told them about meeting you…"

"C—cc—inderella."

"And The Prince," Selina whispered with a smile, gazing at him once more, although she eventually had to look away, guilt overcoming her. "I'm sorry it happened like this. I didn't—God," she looked up at the ceiling. "You think about it, you know it's coming, it's inevitable—," she blinked, causing a tear to roll down her cheek. "But never you, Bruce. Not once did I imagine visiting your grave, saying—saying goodbye like this," she had to swallow again to continue. "This world was so lucky to have you, I just figured it would keep you."

Gently, he reached out a hand, resting it on her cheek and urging her to look at him. "Wouldn't be w—worth it without y—you."

Selina kept his hand there by covering it with her own, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks as she said: "I love you, Bat."

Bruce held the reverence of the moment, swallowing down whatever emotion was threatening to overcome him. "I love you, Cat," he replied, by some miracle without a stutter. "I d—do."

She smiled as best she could, moving his hand from her cheek to his stomach and gently tapping her wedding ring against his—the ones they wore just for show. "I do," she whispered, not bothering to wipe her eyes. "I always have." Selina took a shaky breath, noticing tears gathering in his eyes as well. "I used to steal things just so you'd chase me," she laughed.

Bruce shook his head, a single tear falling down his cheek. "I h—had to chase you. You took something from me. That f—ff—first night, you stole it."

"The statue?" Selina wiped the next tear from his eye.

But Bruce shook his head, moving their joined hands over his chest now…to cover his heart.

/

Jo sighed, sounding defeated. "I did my best, Mom."

Pam nodded in understanding, squeezing her daughter's wrist before taking a deep breath and turning towards Bruce's room for her final favor to him. She'd answered his call just like he'd asked in that elevator 25 years ago. He'd given her the gift of life, and in return, she was now prepared to give him the gift of death.

"Is it gonna hurt?" Carrie's shaky voice stopped Pam in her tracks.

She shook her head, turning to give Carrie a reassuring smile where she sat clutching Courtney's hand, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "It will feel like going to sleep. His last few moments, when he begins to slip, will feel far gentler than living."

Courtney wrapped a supportive arm around Carrie's shoulder, Anthony doing the same for Duke where the boy sat doing his very best not to cry. Barbara and Dick stood silently hand-in-hand. Cassandra sat off to the side, her head bowed reverently. Harleen sat with Delilah on her lap, Terry sitting at her feet with his knees drawn to his chest, and Daisy stood behind them, her arms crossed over her chest. And Tim wrung his hands nervously, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

With a nod, Pam left them, entering the bedroom where Selina still sat holding Bruce's hand.

They'd both been crying, that much was clear, and she noticed Selina stiffen at the sound of the door opening.

"Are you ready?" Pam asked softly.

Bruce blinked. "M—mmy son? D—dd—d—,"

"Damian," Selina finished for him. "Where's our son? He hasn't said goodbye."

Pam pursed her lips, trying to mask her own disappointment at Damian's failure. "He said he loves you very much, but he's…he's afraid, and he can't. He can't say goodbye."

Bruce blinked a few times like he was trying to process what she'd said, but clearly wasn't as upset as Selina, who tried to shoot up from her chair, but was tethered to her spot by the hand she was still holding.

"Let him be," Bruce said. "It's his chh—hhoice."

Selina looked down at him, seeming to weigh her options, and ultimately choosing to honor Bruce's wishes, kissing him on the cheek as she sat back down. "This is about you, not him. I'm sorry."

Bruce squeezed her hand, communicating that it was OK—not that it would be OK, he couldn't know that, but to Pam it seemed he was telling her spending his last moment with only her was alright.

Ivy sat down on his other side, pulling a small vial from her pocket and a syringe from the kit she kept down in the Batcave. "It doesn't have to be right now, Bruce," she reminded him. "We can wait a little longer, this is all up to you."

"I—I've said goodbye," Bruce told her. "Damian knows w—what he m—means to me."

Ivy nodded solemnly, readying the syringe, flicking the glass with her fingernail after it was filled with the green liquid from the vial. "Thank you," she murmured as she punctured his skin with the needle.

"F—for what?"

Ivy watched his eyes as she injected the liquid, his pupils dilating until she could just barely see the blue that made up his iris. "For being a good man. And for being my friend."

In loving memory of

Bruce Wayne

Father, Partner, Friend

1961-2046

"Men are still good. We fight, we kill, we betray one another…but we can rebuild—we can do better. We have to."