Chapter Text
Bruce’s knees hit the ground before his coffee.
The mug shatters just after his mind does, fracturing into a hundred different pieces. Thoughts, emotions, memories -- they all blur, split into fragments he cannot hope to process. He needs to --
-- Dick is upstairs on the parlor settee, writhing in pain. He was thinking about Barbara. There's a half-eaten sandwich on the table, one he hadn’t planned on finishing. Tuna salad, something he’s always eaten to appease Alfred. Alfred still makes it, and Dick still eats it, because he has to.
Please, he thinks, loud enough for it to rise above the storm surge in Bruce’s mind, Why is this --
-- Jason is in the garage, down on one knee like Bruce. He’s biting his lip to keep himself from crying out. It’s beginning to bleed, and the salty blood flooding his mouth reminds him of when the Pit water flooded into his lungs --
-- Cass was meditating. Now, she’s frozen with her legs folded under her, bile rising in her throat as she grips the edges of her yoga mat. Bruce feels her nausea it like it’s his own, feels the sickly panic in her stomach that sharpens with every second their minds keep --
-- Tim is bent over his laptop in the second floor den. His nose is gushing blood into the keyboard, destroying the custom key caps. His thoughts cling to Bruce like he's a life raft, begging him for some kind of answer. It's impossible, what's happening. It literally isn't possible, not unless they've been cursed by some unknown magic item or infected by alien tech. He doesn't think they picked anything new up today, and if Bruce doesn't know, then he --
-- Steph wasn’t awake, but she is now, fighting off a headache worse than any migraine she’s ever had. Her patrol shift is in forty minutes. She was nursing a slight cold in bed, praying it would resolve by patrol. If Bruce finds out she's sick, he'll --
-- Damian is shivering on the floor of his bathroom, arms wrapped around his legs. His fingers dig into the backs of his eyes, trying to press out the voices and thoughts. If he just concentrates, he can do it. He can. Father would --
ENOUGH.
Bruce slams a wall down, hard enough that every person in the Manor winces. He is left with the near-silence of his own thoughts, and even though it is quiet, it is no longer soothing. The bond itches at the back of his mind, dragging his thoughts back to the bond like a sunflower following the sun.
He can feel each of his children slowly putting down their own walls, dividing their thoughts like he had. It takes Tim less than three seconds to perfect Bruce’s method, and he shares the instructions with the others instantly.
Dick retches into a trash can. Jason spits the blood in his mouth on the garage floor, scowling. Steph pulls herself out of bed, heading for Cass’ room next door. Damian’s hands slip from his face, and slowly -- slowly -- the thoughts begin to quiet. They are their own people again -- or as much as they can be.
Bruce’s knees are soaked in coffee. He opens his eyes, wincing at the light from the Cave computer screens. How long was he…?
Seven minutes, Tim says, swiping a hand across his laptop screen and clearing his blood splatter away, Seven minutes and twenty eight seconds.
Get out of my fucking head!
Bruce winces at Jason’s volume, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dick sends him a burst of sympathy, brushing up against the walls around his mind.
Trying, Tim replies, TRYING, OKAY?
Shut UP! Steph thinks, her thoughts sharp as daggers, You’re making it worse!
Cass is crying, and Bruce can feel it. Steph’s hand is on her arm, trying to comfort her. It is odd to feel both the hand giving comfort, and the arm receiving it. Neither of them know what to make of the sensation.
There is no comfort, he realizes. Not when they’re overlapping like this. Not when he knows that Dick is about to tell him to --
Lighten up, he says, an aside to Bruce. Mostly. We can’t be doom and gloom about this. You’ll make it --
-- worse, Jason says, finishing his sentence, Lock it down, B. You’re making the birds nervous.
Bruce inhales, centering himself. He visualizes the walls around his mind thickening, rough and unyielding. Thinks of Gotham alleys and the smell of rainwater collecting between bricks.
Dick’s approval entwines with Jason’s reluctant awe. The latter emulates Bruce a moment later, chains and spikes spreading across his mental walls.
Better, Dick thinks, testing them with a mental push, But I can still feel --
-- your thoughts, Bruce finishes, sensing Jason's irritation, Try again.
This time, Jason succeeds in his attempt, his thoughts fading into an indistinct hum. Bruce tests the walls, feeling Tim and Steph do the same to him. A moment later, they brush against each other, recoiling in unison as they realize who the other is.
Damian is still lying on the floor in his bathroom. He doesn’t separate his thoughts like the others. He avoids conscious thought as much as possible, but what does filter through is bitter with fear.
Damian? Dick asks. At the same time, Steph rubs an arm up Cass’ side, trying so very, very hard not to freak out.
One by one, they pick themselves up. Slightly calmer, with their thoughts pulled back in their respective corners, the bond is -- well, it's not painless, but it's better. Better than whatever the initial, panicked flurry of thoughts had been.
Dick heads for Damian’s suite without a word, grim. Jason eyes the stairs down to the Cave. Tim is already typing on his laptop, growing irritated as the keys begin to lag from the water damage. Cass leans into Steph's shoulder, exhaling.
Bruce pushes off the floor, ignoring the sodden knees of his pants. He directs his thoughts to the group at large, softening his walls enough for them to get through.
Cave, he thinks as clearly as he can, Five minutes. We need to talk.