The Father Who Wasn’t There
Wayne Manor – Study, Late Evening
The fire had burned low. The glass of scotch on the desk had gone untouched.
Bruce stood at the window, watching Peter move through his training forms in the garden below. He was fluid. Balanced. No wasted motion. The League’s mark was carved into every movement.
But something else was there, too.
Stillness. Control. Humanity.
Damian never had that until he came here.
Peter was already finding it — alone.
Bruce’s reflection in the glass looked older than usual.
Behind him, Alfred’s voice came gently. “He’s adapting well, all things considered.”
Bruce didn’t turn. “I see him wake up gasping. Every night. And then I see him pretend nothing happened.”
“He’s trying not to burden anyone,” Alfred said. “Perhaps he thinks he has no right.”
Bruce closed his eyes. “Because I wasn’t there. For either of them.”
Alfred didn’t answer that. He didn’t need to.
Bruce finally turned to face the empty room. “He’s not like Damian. He’s quieter. More calculating. But there’s something else. Something… cracked.”
“He’s been shattered and reassembled too many times,” Alfred said softly. “But some of the pieces… are still his.”
Bruce sat down at the desk, finally lifting the glass.
“Do you think he hates me?”
“No,” Alfred said. “But I think he’s afraid to need you.”
That landed like a blade.
Because Bruce knew exactly what that felt like.
⸻
Later That Night
Bruce knocked once before entering Peter’s room. No mask. No cape. Just himself.
Peter was seated on the windowsill, knees tucked to his chest.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Peter asked without looking back.
“No,” Bruce said. “Didn’t expect you to, either.”
Silence stretched.
Then Peter said, “You knew I existed, didn’t you? Before.”
Bruce didn’t lie. “Yes.”
Peter’s shoulders tensed.
Bruce continued. “Ra’s told me once. Years ago. I asked if you were alive. He said you were his. Nothing more.”
Peter turned, eyes darker than before.
“And you let me stay there?”
“I wanted to come. I was going to. But by the time I was close, you were gone. Drowned in the Pit. And then…”
“You gave up.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Because there was no excuse. Not for that.
Peter looked at him for a long time.
Then, softly: “I don’t need another parent. I’ve had enough of those.”
Bruce nodded. “Then let me be something else. Whatever you do need.”
Peter looked down at his hands. The knuckles still scarred from years of fighting. The calluses of a boy trained to kill.
“I don’t know what I need,” he admitted.
Bruce stepped forward. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Peter didn’t answer right away.
But he didn’t say no.