Chapter Text
The sky is bright and cloudless, the sunlight like a velvet caress on her skin. The occasional chirp of birds in the distance sits uncomfortably against the sombre mood of the manor. There is a general murmur of conversation among the gathered guests, but she is in no mood to participate. Still, she can’t help but hear the occasional snippets that drift in.
“He wasn’t getting any younger, was he? I mean, he still looked good for his age, mind you. But Linda was saying --”
“Such a shame, he could have done so much better --”
“A wastrel through and through, but he did know how to throw a good party --”
“Father would have been very displeased by your presence, traitor. You had no right to step foot in here anymore.”
“Shut your trap, demon brat.”
“Jason, Damian, can you please not fight today? I can’t deal with you both now.”
“Can’t or won’t deal with me, Dickie bird? Cause I ain’t leaving.”
“I will make you, Todd.”
“Stop, just stop. Do you think Bruce would want you both squabbling over his coffin --”
Clara Kent flinches and tries to block out the noise around her. It feels surreal sitting here at the funeral of Bruce Wayne, and she feels alone—so very alone.
She doesn’t expect to see any other familiar faces here, except maybe Diana. It has been decades since the last time the full Justice League was in attendance. They have grown bigger, so much bigger than she ever hoped when she first put on the cape, when she first caught a glimpse of the armor-weave cape across Gotham’s many shadows and saw the gold of the lasso swinging over them in an arc. Bigger and better, although he never saw it that way (“bigger does not always mean better Clara”). She hurriedly turns her thoughts away from him.
The original Justice League is only a story of legends now. One by one, they have fallen or moved on. Surprisingly, the first of them to go was Martian Manhunter. They lost J’onn to a burning apartment building; he died saving more than thirty innocent civilians.
Then it was Green Arrow. Of course, Oliver was never able to work well within the confines of the code the JL had established. She had been a helpless witness to many screaming matches between Batman and Green Arrow. But she had also seen Bruce quietly break down when the news of Oliver’s death reached them. Dammit, she isn’t supposed to be thinking about him. Not today. Not here, if she wants to survive the day.
She still thought, somewhat naively, that nothing could break the Trinity. Then Steve Trevor died in a car accident, and Diana returned to Themyscira to mourn. She only came back once since then, to bid farewell to Shayera on her departure to Thanagar. Clara had been terrified it would be Batman next time and constantly looked out for him in their battles, much to his irritation. In the end, he did go. Just not in the way she had expected.
It was another monthly briefing at the Watchtower. Batman was going over a new security protocol to be followed by inbound Javelins, and she had been listening with half an ear, her mind on the article she needed to edit by tomorrow.
“Superwoman, a word.”
She looked up to see the meeting had concluded. The other members were leaving as quickly as they could without seeming like they were fleeing (Batman always had that effect on everyone), and Batman was waiting at the end of the table impatiently.
“Sure, Batman.”
He turned around and walked away, not checking if she was following. There was a time when she would have been offended by that. Now, there was no place she would not follow him. He led them to his quarters in the Watchtower and motioned with his head for her to join him inside. Once they were in, he shut the door with a soft hiss. Clara turned to face him.
“What is it, B?”
“Bruce Wayne will no longer be a member of the Justice League, effective immediately. Robin will take over as the next Batman. He has been briefed on the matter and will be there for Batman’s next monitor duty. I have also made arrangements to update the Watchtower systems to give him Z-level clearance. Any questions?”
Clara stared at him dumbly, the shock on her face evident. “You are leaving?”
Bruce sighed. Then, he started to efficiently strip out of his costume. Clara tried to stop him or turn to give him privacy, but before she could do either, he was naked down to his waist. She let out a soft gasp upon seeing his bare skin.
Bruises marred his entire back and upper torso, turning a sickly shade of yellow. She also found multiple hairline fractures on his ribs. Rao, it must be painful to breathe. She wanted to go to him, to hug and kiss his wounds, to fret over each scrape, but Batman would never encourage such sentiments.
She only remarked, “I didn’t realise there was an uptick in criminal activity in Gotham. I would have assigned more members to patrol.”
“It would have been unnecessary, as there is no significant rise in crime rates.”
“But the wounds--”
“Were acquired during a local mugging and the bank robbery the week before.”
“Then how --”
“My reflexes are getting slower, Kala. Also, I am not healing at the same rate I used to. It would be unwise for me to continue being Batman as I am likely to become a liability soon. Damian has shown himself fully capable of being the next Batman. He has a good support system with Agent A, Oracle, and Nightwing.”
“And you.”
Bruce smirked faintly. “And me.”
“Are you sure about this, B?”
“I have been doing this for thirty years now, Kala. I cannot beat my age with training and discipline alone. As much as I like to pretend otherwise, in the end, I am only human,” he replied. Clara stared at him. The Bruce Wayne she knew would never have made that admission aloud. Something must have happened.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
Bruce sighed again. He slowly removed the cowl and sank onto the bed. Clara moved forward to sit beside him. She studied his profile and realised that, like all other things, Bruce had mastered the art of ageing well. While there were strands of white in his hair, especially at the temples, his arctic blue eyes held the same fierceness she always remembered. He still had the predominant aristocratic cheekbones, and his years as Batman had ensured that he remained muscled. In all, he didn’t look bad for his age.
Clara realised that she had been staring at him for a while and snapped out of her thoughts. She thanked the low lights in the room for hiding her blush and gave an encouraging nod for him to continue.
“Two nights ago, I was patrolling near the harbour, and some local thugs were harassing a working girl. Usual routine, except this time I didn’t turn fast enough to prevent a guy from holding a gun to my forehead at point-blank range.” Clara shivered as Bruce continued. “It was a careless and costly mistake, and I would have died had Robin not come in. Both Alfred and Damian had been hinting at my retirement for a long time, but now I couldn’t brush them away. It was a decision that had to be made.”
Clara was silent, trying to process the bomb Bruce had casually dropped in her lap, but she couldn’t help asking, “Will I see you again?”
In the end, her fears turned out to be unfounded. Just because Bruce Wayne was no longer Batman didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with the Justice League. He still closely monitored all League affairs, planned training schedules for the members, oversaw complex missions, gave out pointers, and overall terrified the younger members both in and out of costume.
Still, there had been instances where she keenly missed him.
It was yet another battle with parademons, but they were quickly countered by the League. Darkseid seemed to not even be trying this time and hadn’t shown up to the battle. However, the Apokolips invasion demanded all League members be present. Superwoman was just putting out the last of the fires when she saw Batman nearby, dismantling a boom-box. She had casually called out:
“That was over fast. I expected a lot more heat from them.”
Batman turned, finished with the box. “True. This was either an ill-planned invasion or it could be a distraction.”
“Maybe, but if it was a distraction, it was a poor one. The parademons made it seem like the spies on the H’oln system’s moon were competent,” she replied with a snort. She grinned at him, expecting to see an answering smirk on Batman’s face, except she saw confusion.
“I am not aware of that mission, Superwoman,” Batman said, the frown evident even when hidden by the cowl.
She wanted to hit herself. She had forgotten that it was Damian under the cowl now, not his father. Bruce had been with her during the diplomatic crisis on H’oln, not Damian. She remembered laughing with him about the love-struck prince. She remembered dancing with him and getting drunk on H’olnian wine. She also remembered Bruce not updating the mission specifics on the Watchtower computers later, calling it strictly need-to-know information.
But it had been something of an inside joke between them. Damian couldn’t have known about it. She gave some half-hearted reply and left to give others orders for clean-up. Later that night, lying on the bed in her Metropolis apartment, Clara felt old and tired in a way she had never felt before.
The sudden hush in the crowd brings her back from her musings. In the distance, she can see the doors of Wayne Manor opening. The four boys (men, she amends to herself) are carrying what appears to be an extremely ornate coffin, letting people know Brucie Wayne was as ostentatious in death as he had been in life. Instinctively, she knows that Bruce had hand-picked that coffin, and she has to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. She can imagine him updating the Bat-computer with instructions to choose this design in the event of his death. Pretending even now, aren’t you, B?
By now, the procession is near the Wayne mausoleum; she can see Dick and Damian taking the lead, with Tim and Jason bringing up the rear. She can see tear tracks on all four boys (men), but to anyone without supervision, they are as stoic as they can get. When they cross her, Damian looks up and gives her a curt nod. She manages to nod back as they move on.
Clara can't watch anymore. Her work here as the chief editor of the Daily Planet is over. She would have a shiny article ready for the next day’s issue about the death of the Prince of Gotham. Right now, she needs air, space to breathe, and time to process Bruce’s death.
She hurries away, not caring where she is going, trying to find a place where she can take off, away from prying eyes. It is getting difficult to swallow the scream building up in her throat. Blindly, she moves until she finds herself climbing up the stairs to the Manor entrance. She doubles her steps until she slams the front door open.
The housekeeping staff are scattered across the entrance hall, hurrying to set up lunch for the guests in attendance. She avoids them and hurries down the hallway, past the dressing room, past the dining hall, and only stops when she reaches the kitchen. She walks over to the sink, takes two gulping glasses of water, and presses her palms tightly against her eyes to stop the burning behind them. Coming into the manor is instantly proving to be a bad idea. She is being assaulted by even more memories here.
While Bruce’s authority was unquestionable inside Wayne Manor, the kitchen was always a safe space. This was Alfred’s territory, and anyone who had qualms with the master of the house would find themselves here for food and advice on how to deal with the brooding bat. In the years after she befriended Bruce (while Batman had firmly maintained that they were acquaintances), Clara found herself here so often that Alfred had taken to baking her mother’s apple pie every now and then.
Clara had always known objectively that Bruce was getting older, but she had merely put it down to differences in physiology between humans and Kryptonians. To her, Bruce had always been the person with all the answers, the one with the necessary plans to get out of any situation. He was as infallible as she was invulnerable, and that was why they were the World’s Finest. Hence, weakness was never something she would associate with him. But the day she saw Bruce truly frail was the day Alfred passed away.
She had woken up to the shrill tone of something ringing nearby. Her hand instinctively went to her Justice League communicator before she realised it was her cell phone. She groggily picked up the phone and found Dick’s number flashing across the screen. Bemused, she accepted the call.
“Dick, what is wrong?”
“You need to come to the Manor right now, something is wrong!”
Clara woke up instantly. She searched for and focused on the familiar heartbeats in Wayne Manor. She could spot Dick’s rapid-fire beat and the slow, meandering pace of Bruce’s beat. Except it was fast and elevated.
She probed further. There was Jason’s in the lower garage—a surprise, to be sure. Stephanie was in the receiving hall, Timothy was in the kitchen and, by the sound of it, yelling at someone over the phone. And Damian was with his menagerie in the woods, calm and serene as he always was around his beloved animals. He was the only permanent occupant of the Manor these days except Bruce and Alfred –
Wait! Alfred! She couldn’t find his heartbeat anywhere. The stable and soothing symphony in the background of the Manor was missing. She cast a wider net over Gotham, hoping to find a snippet of the beat, tuning out the rest of the world with her usual focus. Nothing.
She became increasingly agitated as she searched for the familiar sound, while a small but growing part of her realised why she wasn't finding it. Alfred was entering his ninth decade, well past average life expectancy. He was in good health, sure, but she had seen what age did to humans with her own parents.
“He wasn’t down in the kitchen this morning. He had a mild fever for the past few days, so Bruce went to check on him. When he didn’t come back up for a while, Tim went down to get them both. Bruce slammed the door shut and he won’t open it no matter what we say. So please come ASAP, he only listens to you these days.”
Bruce, oh God! He must have known instantly.
Clara felt her heart break even as she kept searching frantically.
“I will be there.”
She didn’t bother changing out of her sleep clothes. She was in the air and touching down on Manor grounds in seconds, the low pound of a sonic boom behind her. She rushed inside, barely sparing a thought to the blare of alarms inside the Manor at her abrupt entrance.
She knew the way inside like the back of her hand, courtesy of many, many years spent in this place, and even if not, Bruce’s heartbeat was like a beacon for her. She would not get lost here.
Clara made it down to Alfred’s bedroom. Like Dick mentioned, the door was shut tight. That wouldn't stop her, not really, but she wouldn't break the door down. Nor would she use her X-ray vision. It was the only courtesy she could offer the man behind that door—both of them, actually. Instead, she knocked softly.
“Bruce, it is me. Let me in, let me help you.”
She could hear no noise inside except that one heartbeat, but she knew with absolute certainty that Bruce was listening. She leaned softly against the door.
“Bruce, please, don’t shut me out. I am here, I will always be here. Let me in, please, let me help.”
She waited, leaning against the door. She could hear no movement at first. Then slowly, footsteps approached, and her own heartbeat sped up in tandem. The door opened slowly. Bruce looked dishevelled. There were faint traces of tear tracks on his cheeks, there was coffee spilled all over his pants, and she could make out faint blood stains on his feet as well.
Clara reached out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal—a dangerous animal, but wounded all the same. She waited with her arms extended for a hug but made no further move. Bruce just watched her, uncomprehending for a while, and then within a breath, he all but collapsed into her arms.
She hugged him tightly, trying to protect him from the whole world, from everything that wanted to hurt him. And like always, this time too, she failed.
Bruce didn’t cry, didn’t shake; in fact, he didn’t even make a noise as he held her tightly, mourning the only father figure he had known for well over fifty years.
“The boys?” he asked after a while.
“Don’t know yet. Dick is upstairs. Tim and Jason are in the kitchen, Stephanie is around, and Damian is in the woods.”
Perhaps the knowledge that the rest of the house was still alive and breathing, still functioning, brought some clarity to him. He leaned against her for one more moment as if borrowing her near-inexhaustible strength, and then visibly pulled himself together.
“I need to tell them. Then I need to make some arrangements, call my lawyers. Alfred has no biological family left; we need to see what to do about his effects. Will you...”
“I will be right here as long as you need me.”
Bruce didn’t reply, just nodded and made his way upstairs. Clara took the time to glimpse into Alfred’s room. She could see the shattered mug on the floor that Bruce must have dropped and then stepped on in haste. The coffee mixed with blood was pooling in the plush carpet. She could see the otherwise tidy room with the latest book Alfred had been reading face down on the bedside stand. She could see him lying still in the bed, eyes closed as if just sleeping, and confirmed once again what she knew from the moment Dick called. Alfred was not with them anymore.
She closed her eyes tightly, unwillingly transported to the moment her Pa passed away. Too many people were leaving her, and too soon at that. She stayed there for a while yet. Leaving now felt like she would part with Alfred forever. Her beloved friend and adviser.
“Thank you, Alfred,” she whispered, “for everything. I hope you are at peace wherever you are. And I promise you that I will watch over Bruce for as long as I can.”
The promise still resonates with her as she sits down on the kitchen stool, weary to the bone. Bruce outlived Alfred only by another two decades. Not a long time even by human standards—a blink of an eye for someone with Kryptonian physiology.
Sitting here, it is impossible not to think about the man. After the death of his father figure, something changed in Bruce, and in their relationship as well. He quietly but cleanly cut her out of his life. She has wondered many times if the fault lay with her, if she had somehow done something to upset him. One moment they were closest friends and confidantes, the World’s Finest, and the next they became nearly strangers again. She had done everything she could to bridge the gap short of begging.
Bruce assured her he wasn’t angry and there wasn’t anything wrong the few times they did talk regarding the JL, but he quickly cut the talk when she tried to broach personal topics. She had asked almost all the boys (men) about what went wrong. But they were perplexed as well.
In the end, she chalked it up to Bruce struggling to process his loss and left him to his devices. Now, there is nothing left. No questions, no answers, no bickering, no companionship, nothing. Just memories and agonising what-ifs.
She feels the lump in her throat from earlier come back with a vengeance. Her eyes burn as she struggles to hold back her tears.
“Stupid, stupid man. You idiot buffoon, why won’t you talk to me?”
“Yes, he was quite the contradictory man, wasn’t he?”
“Diana! You came!”