Chapter Text
Looking back on it now, Bruce can see the signs he ignored.
He can see the chronic aches he started to develop in his thirties, shortly before Jason returned and brought Damian into their lives, but had shrugged them off as a result of dealing with the fourth Arkham break-out that year.
He can see how ignoring them only made it worse, and the longer recovery times after adding scars on top of abused nerves and bones were attributed to not getting enough sleep. Not to mention adopting Tim, Cass, and Duke in quick succession over just a few years and taking legal care of Steph along with Harper and Cullen on occasion.
All the hell he had gone through over the years both physically and mentally, not the least of which included having his back broken and cradling his murdered son, and Bruce believes he could be forgiven for not giving too much thought to his body. After all, he attributed most of it to his age. Bruce wasn’t that daft; he knew he was getting up there, but it was nothing he couldn’t push through no matter how much Duke and Cass teamed up to make sure he rested when injured.
It’s not until shortly after he and Selina get married, when they both take a couple months off patrol to care for Helena and Terry, that he truly feels the weight of it. Maybe it was just the dramatic shift going from caring for twin newborns while his older children maintained the illusion of Batman to then fully taking to the streets again, but Bruce wasn’t too sure.
And it isn’t until he reaches the ripe age of forty-four that everything literally hits him over the head with the reality of what was happening.
Literally hits him, of course, because his back stiffens at the wrong moment in the middle of a fight in Park Row, causing his body to seize, freezing him in place - allowing the perfect window for one of Harvey’s thugs to attack with a tire iron. Bruce drops like a stone, trapped in agony, and relies on his suit’s defenses to shield him as he tries to push himself back into the fight.
“Oh shit, Paul!”
“Didja kill ‘im?”
“I dunno, man, I dunno, he just…dropped!”
Seconds pass as the thugs argue around him, poking and prodding as if to check his status among the living. In those seconds, the pain only gets worse, Bruce groaning as he tries to pick himself up but the pressure in his back seizes once more, and he drops again to the grimey asphalt.
“Shit, dude, I don’ think he’s gittin’ up.”
“Do we drag ‘im to the bosses?”
“If Harvey’s in the seat tonight ya know he’s just gonna call up Ivy to come get his sorry ass. Ya really wan’ ta take the chance?”
“Doug’s gotta point.”
Bruce huffs, shifting himself on the ground as the thugs continue debating what to do. Hell, he’s debating what to do because the thugs are right: Ivy would be called if Harvey was the one speaking, and the last thing he needs is the Sirens gloating while Selina dragged him to Alfred. Or - god forbid - one of his kids, like Harper or Steph, happening upon him on their own patrol routes.
He’d never hear the end of it.
“Hey! What’re you boys doin’ on our turf?”
A new voice, one with the Narrows accent that Harvey’s thugs lacked. Nowadays, only one group employed those from this side of town, unless the employer was ignorant to the stories of severed heads in duffle bags.
Relief and annoyance simultaneously seep through Bruce’s veins as a new scuffle erupts, resolved in short order with a few warning shots from the surrounding buildings. Whoever initially spoke obviously had well-placed back-up, as was to be expected from Jason’s milita.
A moment later it’s quiet, and Bruce gathers enough strength to flip himself over and stare up at the polluted night sky. A man he vaguely recognized stood over him, frowning.
“You good, Bats?”
“Peachy,” Bruce manages, closing his eyes as something in his knee flares up. Just absolutely wonderful . “One of Hood’s lieutenants, I take it?”
The man straightens up, shouldering his gun and opening his jacket. Emblazened on his chestplate was a shape that could have been Jason’s helmet, an insignia that each of Hood’s people wore that distinguished them from the criminals of Gotham.
“Frank Jackson, first lieutenant, at your service,” he answers, crouching down. “With Boss outta town, he asked us to keep an eye on you and the Birds.”
Of course he would, Bruce thinks, and if he had any energy left, he’d leave enough to be proud of Jason. His son was out in Star City with Lizzie, the two of them visiting Roy and Lian for the week. Leave it to Jason to make sure there’d be no slack in his absence.
“Forgive me, but you, uh, don’ look too good, Bats,” Frank says, tilting his head at him.
“‘Course he don’t,” says another voice. Another lieutenant, presumably, had walked up behind Frank and joined the conversation. His gun still sat in his hands at the ready. “You know how long he’s been doin’ this, Jackson? Got like ten kids, an’ now Hood’s made him a grandpa. I’m surprised he’s still out ‘ere.”
The new man pokes Bruce with the barrel of his gun, eliciting a grunt. He chuckles and then hollers over his shoulder at the other militia before gesturing in Frank’s direction.
“Aaron Gibson, second-in-command to the Hood. Wish it were unda better circumstances, but nice ta meet ya properly, Batman,” he says as two women adorned in similar garb to Frank and him walk up.
“Properly?” Bruce mutters, gasping as the four militia lift him up off the ground, distributing his weight among the four of them. The movement causes a flare-up that nearly sears in its intensity.
Aaron laughs even while Bruce bites his tongue to keep from vocalising his pain. “Yeah, ya broke my nose and three ribs a few years ago, before tha truce. Kinda pissed Hood off, but you’ve got a hell of a right, Bats. Now hush it up, me ‘n the boys are takin’ you somewhere safe. Not too far now.”
The walk could have lasted four minutes or four hours, but Bruce would not have recognized a difference. Every wrong move, every odd step, and it has the stiffness and pain in his knee and back shrieking to the point that he would almost rather Bane break him again than deal with whatever hell this was.
Thankfully, the milita eventually arrived at their destination. Delirious as he is with pain, Bruce can’t see shit, but he feels some relief when they drop him onto a horizontal bed covered with cushioning. Some kind of conversation occurs afterward, and soon enough Bruce is left alone in the room with only Aaron.
“Why,” Bruce chokes out before it turns into another gasp. Thankfully, Aaron seems to get the gist and crosses his arms while leaning against the nearby wall.
“You’re the job,” he shrugs, “and Hood’s old man. We may be goons but we ain’t stupid, and we do care about ‘im. And I ain’t lettin’ this settle as anotha Bat secret while Jason’s not ‘ere.”
Despite the pain, Bruce turns his head in Aaron’s direction, eyes narrowing into a glare. But his son’s second only raises his hands.
“Hey man, he didn’t tell us crap. Blame the fact that y’all’s lil’ charade just got harda and harda to hide the more kids your rich ass took in. Or tha fact that Jason got more lax with his mask after Lizzie and started ta treat us more as friends than employees he respected.” Aaron shrugged his shoulders. “Take yer pick, Bats. I ain’t told no one and none o’ my people who figured it out will be sayin’ shit either. S’not like we’d get too far even if we did. ‘Sides, I think Ms. Thompkins would have something to say if we ratted out halfa her faves.”
Just as the words leave Aaron’s mouth, the door behind him opens and a frazzled Leslie walks through, dragging a cart of supplies with her.
“Aaron, I hope I didn’t just hear you threatening my client,” she comments as she approaches Bruce, who feels something deep inside him relax despite the pain. Leslie always had that same effect as Alfred, that made everything seem so much better.
“Nevah, Leslie,” Aaron grins. “Now, where ya wan’ me?”
Leslie points to Bruce’s head. “Get the cowl off. Hit the left latch then the right before lifting, then check for a concussion. Otherwise, stay quiet. And despite your salary, I don’t want any of this getting back to Jason. Boy has enough to worry about.” Then her gaze lands on Bruce. “That’s not to say it stays undiscussed for five years, Bruce.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce groans, a smile on his lips. Familiar territory; he could work with that.
Aaron snorts but moves into position, fiddling with the cowl while Bruce swallows his protest. The man already knew who he was, and was close enough with Jason he’d been trusted not only with the entire milita but also knew of Lizzie - which meant he had Bruce’s trust too.
With only minor fidgeting, Aaron slides the cowl off and puts it aside, grinning cheekily at Bruce all the while.
“You’re prettier than the papers give ya credit for, Bats.”
“ ‘m flattered,” Bruce mumbles with a stilted chuckle that cuts off when Leslie fusses with his knee, peeling away the armor there. “Shit.”
“Stay. Quiet,” Leslie says again, eyeing Bruce critically and glaring at Aaron. “Bruce, besides the knee?”
“Something in my back,” he responds as Leslie gently releases his knee. “Flared up, got hit, hasn’t let up.”
Leslie frowns, tutting as she moves to her supplies and grabs something that Bruce can’t see. “Aaron, come here.”
“Thought I was supposed ta stay quiet?”
“You can come here and still be quiet,” Leslie retorts. She gestures toward Bruce, a furrow in her brow and worry in her eyes. “I need him flipped, and for you to keep him from moving as much as possible while I do the x-ray.”
“Yes’m,” Aaron says before moving to do as directed, hauling one of Bruce’s arms over his shoulder and doing his damndest not to jostle anything as he moves.
Pain alights Bruce’s nerves like an electric shock regardless of Aaron’s efforts, and he barely suppresses a groan as the milita commander succeeds in plopping him face-first into the cushions. There’s an ache in his neck now, too, one that he’s sure connects to the locked-up feeling from his spine that hasn’t faded since he got walloped by the tire iron.
By the grace of something, the pain never hits the same height as that horrid, shrieking agony it escalated to when Aaron brought him here, but all the same the ache and that electric feeling never fades - not once - the entire time Leslie examines him. Bruce can feel her gentle, wrinkled hands working at his back after Aaron removed the back part of the suit - he can even hear the soothing tone she’s used since he was a kid and since his eldests were still kids, but he can’t understand a word she’s saying.
The fog of hurt overwhelms Bruce even under Leslie’s careful minstrations and the occasional foreign feeling of Aaron’s gloved hands helping her, to the point where he may have even passed out - but who’s to say with his body and mouth reacting at every poke and move as if they affront his very existence.
It’s not until what must be an hour or even longer passes that Bruce gains enough awareness to settle back into his body, feeling every creak and groan of his bones like an old house being rediscovered. He can faintly hear Aaron and Leslie talking somewhere by his feet, the respective bass and tenor tones rousing him further. His whole being feels heavy, weighted, despite the fact that most if not all of his suit has been removed at this point, and Aaron must have flipped him again because he can see the sterilized grey of the clinic ceiling even through lidded eyes.
“Thank you, Aaron,” Leslie says and while she sounds faint and distant, the ebb and flow of sharp pain in his spine has finally subsided enough that he can focus on other things besides just: ow .
“No problem, Leslie,” Aaron reassures, and there’s an audible thump like someone opened a door. “I’ll keep an eye on Jace, make sure his ass don’t get anymore suspicious. ‘N let me or Jenny know if ya need anythin’, ya hear?”
“Crystal,” Leslie replies, a smile in her tone as he presumably shuffles him out the door - leaving just her, Bruce, and the faint sound of machines beeping. “How’s the pain, Bruce?”
“Managable,” he says, quiet, and shifts a bit on the bed. Something tugs on his arm and he doesn’t have to look to know she’s got pain meds being carefully pumped into him. “How long was…”
“Four hours,” she replies curtly, finally coming up to sit beside him. Her greying hair is still in a tight bun but there’s enough flyaways accompanied by her prominent stresslines to back up her statement. “Got an x-ray and a few other scans done, took some blood and plasma too. The IV has been weaning you since you got here, but I’ll send Alfred the new prescription to ease the sharpness of the flare-ups.”
“So it’s just aftershocks?”
Even as Bruce says it, his gut tells him he’s wrong. The aftershock and chronic pain from Bane was a ballroom gala compared to whatever the fuck caused him to drop like that. And by the look on Leslie’s face, the way her features twist, he knows it’s something worse.
She reaches for the counter behind her, retrieves a tablet that she swipes on a few times before turning it to face him, displaying a stark x-ray of his spinal cord from brain to tailbone. Certain vertebrae are highlighted brightly, and Bruce’s critical eyes are already searching for whatever Leslie has already figured out. The worry in her gaze unsettles him, as does the number of highlighted vertebrae - including the ones scarred by Bane years ago, but branching beyond and culminating as an ugly orange dye at the base of his neck.
“I’ll put this bluntly, considering your state,” Leslie murmurs, taking pity on his no-doubt confused expression. “The aftershocks were a different issue entirely, but certainly contributed to what happened tonight. A matter of time, no doubt, but your escapades and aging body certainly have done you no favors, Bruce.”
Leslie sighs heavily, passing the tablet to him without a word. She grabs a stylus and gestures at specific areas not highlighted already. “What you’re looking at is the worst case of cartilage disintegration I’ve ever seen, to put it lightly. Your spine is practically just bone rubbing against bone at this point, and one misalignment or wrong move can cause flare-ups like you felt earlier. There’s no cushioning, no padding to catch you anymore. I’m honestly a little surprised you can still turn your neck with how degraded the upper portion of your spinal cord is.”
She points out multiple vertebrae, drawing Bruce’s gaze to the seemingly unending array of touch-points along his spine. There are thoughts racing through his head, he’s sure, but he can’t make any sense of them in light of the suffocating feeling in his chest - the one that’s making his mouth taste like iron and his eyes blur. Instead, he focuses on calming down - breathing - and clenching his left fist in time with the air travelling through his lungs.
“Bruce?”
Leslie’s voice is quiet, a touch somber, and very much tinged with worry.
“So,” he manages to say, just as quiet, “this means…”
Leslie almost looks like she wants to laugh, a smile even teases her lips, but any humor evaporates as soon as it comes. Her wrinkled hand grabs on to Bruce’s clenched fist, squeezing with all the firm gentleness of a mother.
“I can’t -” She takes a steadying breath, gently removing the tablet from Bruce and placing it along with her stylus to the side. She brushes her loose hairs behind her ear. “In good conscience,” Leslie begins again, staring him straight in the eye, “and as a medical professional, it would be best if tonight was... one of your last nights, if not the last. If a flare-up was enough to… to cause you this much pain, then I - I can’t say what would happen if you get hit again.”
“That bad?” Bruce murmurs, raising his gaze to the ceiling, breath slowly steadying even as he can feel his pulse skyrocketing. The dulled ache of the pain tugs at him. “Damn.”
“Damn indeed,” Leslie commisserates with a rueful grin and taps at his hand in a comforting gesture. “I’d like to double-down on what I said at the start of tonight, Bruce.”
His brow furrows as he glances at her once more, to which she taps him again - more forceful this time.
“Don’t let it fester,” Leslie states meaningfully. “And in the meantime, I better not see any news reports about Batman teaming up with your Justice League buddies - got it?”
Despite the tumultuous hurricane whirring through his head, Bruce manages a grin and squeezes her hand in response.
“Speaking of,” he says, exhaling heavily, “Mind handing me the comm from my belt?”
“Bruce -“
“Just need to make a call,” Bruce reassures, even as Leslie frowns as she passes it over. “Make it one last rooftop talk between the World’s Finest, yeah?”
Leslie just laughs gently, shaking her head as Bruce fumbles with the comm - no doubt calling the most concerned best friend a bat-themed vigilante could ever have for one of the most emotional conversations of their lives.