It started with gunfire. Screaming. The echo of your names.

Then—silence.

Bruce woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, the phantom sound of your voices still clinging to the air like smoke. The room was dark, heavy, too still. He sat up so fast the sheets tangled around him, his pulse pounding in his ears like a war drum.

The nightmare was too vivid. He could still see it — the cave in ruins, alarms blaring, the suits shattered, and every single one of you gone. Jason, Dick, Tim, Damian, Cass… you. He’d found each of your masks, but never your faces. And in his dream, that was worse than death.

He didn’t even realise he’d stood until his knees hit the floor. His breathing was ragged, too sharp, too loud for the silence that surrounded him. His hands were shaking. Bruce Wayne didn’t shake. But Batman had lost everything in a dream, and that was enough to crack the armour.

“Master Bruce.”

The voice came quiet, steady — like always. Alfred stood in the doorway, robe over his pyjamas, calm in the way only decades of heartbreak could teach.

Bruce turned, shoulders stiff, eyes wide like a trapped animal. “They were gone,” he rasped out, voice barely human. “All of them. I—I couldn’t—”

Alfred didn’t let him finish. He crossed the room, placed a firm, grounding hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t gentle. It was anchoring. The kind of embrace that said You didn’t lose them. Breathe.

Bruce did, eventually. Inhaled the faint smell of tea and antiseptic that always clung to Alfred, the kind that meant home. His chest heaved once, twice, and then finally, the nightmare started to fade.

“They’re safe, sir,” Alfred murmured against his temple. “Every single one of them. I checked on them myself not an hour ago. Sleeping soundly, and quite loudly in Master Jason’s case.”

Bruce let out a half-broken laugh, the sound sharp but real. He rubbed at his face, the rasp of unshaven stubble catching on his palm. Alfred caught the motion and sighed softly.

“You’ve not shaved in days,” he said, tone hovering between scolding and fond.

Bruce tried to answer, but the words didn’t come. His throat tightened again, and all he could manage was a hoarse, “I can’t lose them, Alfred.”

“You won’t,” Alfred said simply. “Not on my watch. Now, come on. Bed.”

Bruce wanted to argue — he always did — but this time he didn’t. He just nodded, exhausted, and let Alfred steer him back toward the bed like he was fifteen again.

Alfred tucked him in, turned off the lamp… and then, as if on instinct, he left.

Five minutes later, the manor’s halls filled with the soft shuffle of bare feet.

Alfred returned with all of you trailing behind him — still half asleep, hair messy, eyes blinking. Damian was the only one fully awake, holding Titus by the collar and glaring at the floor like it had wronged him.

“Up you go,” Alfred said quietly, ushering Damian to Bruce’s side. “Go on, my boy.”

Damian didn’t question it. He crawled into bed and curled up immediately against Bruce’s chest, tiny hands clutching the fabric of his father’s shirt.

You followed next, sliding in on the other side without a word, head resting on Bruce’s shoulder, fingers brushing Damian’s hair.

Jason dropped down on the rug beside the bed, leaning his back against the frame. Dick sprawled out across the foot of the mattress, legs dangling off the side. Tim found the armchair in the corner and promptly passed out again. Cass perched beside him, cross-legged, eyes closing within seconds.

No one spoke. No teasing, no jokes, no questions. Just quiet breathing and the occasional sigh.

Bruce stayed awake the longest. His hand found its way to Damian’s back, the other resting lightly on your shoulder, tracing small, absent circles. Around him were the soft, familiar sounds of his family — the family he’d once dreamed of losing, now alive and within reach.

For the first time in a long time, Bruce let himself fall asleep surrounded by them — tangled, messy, safe.

And Alfred, standing in the doorway with a faint smile, whispered to himself, “Finally, peace.”