chances

[bossymarmalade]

Bruce stands in the middle of the Monitor Womb on the Watchtower, arms crossed over his chest as he watches a series of pulsing dots, scattered across a gridded map of downtown Gotham.

Tim enters knowing Bruce is there, has come especially because of that fact. His eyes land on the map, recalling his latest conversation with Jason and he sighs. “Jason won’t be coming back to Gotham any time soon,” he tells the silent man, watching him carefully.

Bruce grits his teeth, his jaw flaring, but doesn’t answer verbally; with Tim, he can often get away with just this. He looks at the screens, his eyes narrowing, and nods. After a long moment of silence, he speaks: “You spoke with him on the matter?”

Tim keeps his distance, standing just a little to the man’s right and therefore barely in his field of vision. He nods stiffly. “We did. Contacted him while patrolling. He was crystal clear about not wanting to return, leaving his area unattended.” Tim points at the map even though Bruce knows of the hole in their strategy. “I’m back in Gotham, I can.. tend to it?”



Bruce glances behind him, seeing no one else in their vicinity, before continuing to speak, quietly. His tone takes on a peculiar note of sadness, a curling lilt of his words, almost.. British, in nature, as he looks back at the screen. “Did he state his reasons for not.. wanting to return?” Bruce doesn’t acknowledge what Tim has said, yet, his head tilting down as he slips into his own thoughts, waiting for the young man’s response.

Tim knows he’s on thin ice, because after speaking with Jason he hasn’t stopped thinking about the aching it left and knows it will hurt Bruce just the same. Still, he decides to speak the truth. “He did. You are part of the reasons,” he says just as quietly while they both stare ahead instead of at each other like they should. They really should, but Tim can’t, not now.

Bruce doesn’t need to hear anything more even—you, he’s gone because of you—though a small voice clamors to the forefront of his —he’ll find a way to forgive everyone, except for you—thoughts, demanding to know. He needs to know because maybe he can fix it, maybe there’s a way to—Bruce nods, stiffly, even as he gestures at the screen. “Security units we placed on possible targets.” He pauses, clarifies: “Walter Pratt. Manhunter is patrolling as we speak.”

"Less targets than I expected, are you certain?" He plays along, as usual and perhaps doesn’t know how else to deal with the situation. Part of him knows they should talk about Jason, not possible targets. It’s the part of him that worries about their well-being rather than Gotham’s. Tim nudges the edge of his cowl, scratching a non-existent itch on his cheek before pushing the thing back over his head. Hesitant, he turns to look at Bruce through Batman’s layer. "Should we really let Jason be, the way he’s been feeling ever since the parade?" Tim hopes with all his might that Bruce’s answer is no.

Bruce has never been comfortable being without the cowl aboard the Watchtower. The privacy of the Cave was one thing: there, he could be as many shades of either Bruce Wayne or Batman that he needed or felt he needed, at any given point. But here, aboard the Watchtower, in the somewhat public eye, removing the cowl to meet Tim’s bare-faced expression of concern.. It isn’t something he can do. So, instead, he looks at the young man, sidelong, and licks his lips, the skin chapped and flaking—too many nights on patrol in a row, they crack and bleed at the movement—before he answers, his eyes snapping back over at the screen. He begins, his mouth opening, but when nothing comes out, he takes a breath. A long, thin, reedy breath that barely leaves him with enough oxygen to push it back out, that just skates the words across his tongue, dry and brittle as the autumn leaves, turning now. “..I don’t know how to reach him.” The confession is heavy, and he swallows the bitterness of it, as he takes another breath.

Tim notices the effort it takes for Bruce to speak so few words. He would reprimand him if it were anyone other than him. Not to mention he also failed getting through to Jason. “The first step is trying to,” he replies evenly. Speaking for Jason is not his intention, but a bit of insight might be all the man needs to seek contact. “He is concerned about his performance ever since he returned. I was thinking.. perhaps you two should patrol together? Just be there, with him?” Tim glances left and right, a tad twitchy and nervous at the suggestion he’s made.

Bruce pauses. And then, of all things, he nods, in agreement. He doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t assure Tim that it was a good idea: it wasn’t outright rejected, and that is more than enough from the perpetually taciturn man. He looks up at the alarms on the screen, all of them steadily pulsing. Safe. Secure. For now.

Tim thinks he could really use Dick right now, or Alfred, to back him up. There’s no promise to make it happen and no promise it won’t ever happen. Tim narrows his eyes, watching Bruce silently for a long time, the alarms forgotten. What would Dick do? What would Alfred say? He doesn’t know and figures he must be too afraid to truly try. He pulls his cowl back in place, turning to the front with clenched jaws. “We can’t read your mind. You have to speak for us to understand why you behave and act the way you do. It helps clarify..” Even if it doesn’t sooth the aching. Tim crosses his arms not feeling less vulnerable with his expression mostly hidden.

Bruce blinks, because the words strike close, and hard, and he needs to take another breath to steady the first reaction he has to hearing them: anger. He knows that pushing Tim away would not only be disruptive to their common goals, but that he doesn’t want to make the younger man—his son—upset. Angry at him. Disappointed. He takes a slippery breath and shifts his stance, wider, glancing down at the brushed stainless steel underfoot. The fear rears its head, suddenly, that what will come out of his mouth, that it will do nothing that he wants it to do. That it will make things worse. He doesn’t feel as if he has very much on the side of speaking on the truth of what he feels, but he owes Tim too much to succumb to the gut-wrenching insistence of the flurries of thoughts, wretched and scouring the logic-based evidence from his mind. “It’s a good idea. I’ll propose it to Jason, see if that will…” His voice strains. “If it will help ease the divide.” Bruce looks at Tim, face on, the blue of his eyes steady and deep, and takes another breath, his hands lowering to his sides. “Thank you, Tim.”

Tim lips form a thin line. He’s aware of his slightly accelerated heartbeat and breathing, knows that if he knows, so must Bruce and momentarily he hates that fact, because he doesn’t want him to know how much it means to him to hear those words, the appreciation he rarely feels like he receives for all the trouble and shit (that’s quoting Jason) Bruce puts them through. He glances sideways and allows their eyes to meet, counting the seconds he’s able to hold his gaze. Two and a half. Does Bruce know, Tim wonders with lowered head, how much they need him? Each and every single one of them. As a leader, a supervisor, a care-taker, a parent. Even though he’s by his side, he doesn’t feel much closer to Bruce than Jason is, at all. “Don’t tell him I sent you. He dislikes me enough as it is.”

Bruce exhales. “He wouldn’t talk to you at all if it was dislike, Tim.” He looks back at the screens, before turning, to face the younger man. He meets his gaze, holds it, no matter how much he wants to look away and lifts a hand, settling it against his shoulder. His grip tightens, and he speaks, low and hard and earnestly, as if he had felt the thoughts rippling over Tim’s mind. That even if he can’t read them, that he knows, as surely as he knows his own patterns, ruminations, machinations, that they are there. “Don’t doubt me,” he states, and it almost sounds like a command. His expression softens. “Don’t ever doubt for one moment that I’m not grateful for you, Timothy.”

The touch to his shoulder is almost enough to send his heart through his chest. Instantly a sense of guilt causes him to tense even further. He doesn’t want to doubt Batman of all the people in the world. The man he’d easily give his life for, the one he’d follow without question. Perhaps there’s too much left unsaid for that to still be the case. “Sometimes you leave me no choice,” he says earnestly, voice tight in his throat.

Bruce feels his blood go cold in his veins at what Tim says, and he swallows, pulling his hand back with the sudden thought—what if he didn’t want it there? What if, inside of him, there was no need for that from Bruce, because of all that had been said? All that had been done? He pulls his hand back, afraid to impose himself on the younger man, and murmurs, in a quiet burr of noise that almost always means he is half-talking to himself, one side to the other. “..forest for the trees.” He licks his lips, drawing in a rough, angry breath and he looks at Tim again, before looking towards the door. “I’ve failed you both in ways I can only pray I can begin to mend in the time I have left.” The words fall flat from between his teeth, sharp and shivering with self-loathing, and he moves away from the screens and towards the keyboard, cape trailing softly as he taps in a quick code, banishing the program to the Watchtower server. “I hope I get that chance.”

Tim closes his eyes, feeling and hearing Bruce retreat. He doesn’t wish to see the expression that goes with that tone, knows he won’t ever forget it. It doesn’t get easier to breathe, to be in the same vicinity, not after hearing those words of regret. Tim wants to agree that, yes, he did fail them many times. For Bruce to admit this however makes him, for lack of better words, feel like crap. Because he knows what happened, what happens and what might occur in the near future. Taking that into account, is it truly fair to reproach him by denying him the chance he’s actually asking for? Tim frowns deeply, conflicted and the tiniest bit desperate, feeling a lot like the small child he used to be, granting his parents another chance at greeting him as cheerfully as he imagined they would after returning from their four month business trip abroad. He reminds himself Bruce is different, he is similar in ways, but he’s here right now. “.. You only have to ask and will receive as many chances as it takes.” To someday fix this. To look at each other properly, with a sense of familiarity appropriate for a father and son.

Bruce looks over at his son, his expression emotionless, less out of habit now, and more from sheer desperation not to let his resolve fall, to drop everything to try and fix it now, now, because a dark, prickling panic is bubbling deep within his chest. He looks towards the door of the Monitor Womb, empty and still. He speaks, quietly. “You’re a better man than I—” He pauses, when the doors slide open, and instantly, stands straighter as Plastic Man enters, smiling greasily at the two of them as he slinks over to his chair for mandated duty. Bruce glances at Tim, before he moves, out of the small, enclosed space and towards the cafeteria.

Tim swallows thickly, the abrupt stop of Bruce’s words causing him to glare at the elastic man while passing him by. He’s not, better that is. He will never be as cunning or strong or selfless or devoted. The moment to tell him this has passed. Tim moves along, entering the cafeteria where other presences force him to wear a neutral expression. Even this skill isn’t as perfected as Bruce’s. Tim’s fairly certain the corners of his mouth are twitching as they approach the people they are more familiar with.