A/N: Wrote this at 3:42 am. I wanted something new. Updated - 1/27/17

Summary: How Bruce copes after a mission gone bad.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


His Robin

Batman had plenty of missions that had gone wrong. He'd gotten injured and beaten so many times he was more scar tissue than skin, villains had eluded him more often than his pride would allow him to admit, but nothing was worse than when he arrived just a moment too late. Batman was supposed to protect Gotham, but sometimes he failed. Sometimes he wasn't quick enough to catch a fall, sometimes he wasn't smart enough to solve a riddle, sometimes he couldn't take a joke. Sometimes, people died.

On those nights, Batman pushed his cowl back with barely steady hands. He changed into civilian clothes and walked wearily up the stairs. He made his way down the hallway and stopped in front of a door. On those nights, Bruce opened the door to that room to make sure his son was still there. He stepped inside so that he could see the shock of black hair just above the blankets and feel the weight of the world leave his shoulders.

After a bad mission, he could only breathe again once he made sure his child was safe and secure. With every rise and fall of the blankets, Bruce could let some of the guilt seep away. Because there was one person he would never fail.

His child. His son. His Robin.