I'll be good

I just wish you could feel what you say

He had that dream again last night, like the dreams he'd have about his parents just after they died. So much like the dream he had dreamt a few nights ago; it felt as though he was watching the same scene in a movie over and over again, down to the last detail.

That is until he reached the couple standing beneath the streetlamp. They were noticeably different, even from behind, and although it was dark-- the only light coming from the warm glow of the streetlamp-- he knew whoever they were, they were not his parents.

The sound of laughter came again, shrill and loud, piercing the shallow silence. The laugh was unrecognizable to him-- not quite as crazed as the Joker's, but wild enough to match that description. Then again this was Gotham, it could belong to anyone.

Bruce watched as the bodies collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud. He moved closer to them-- though he wasn't sure why-- this sick fascination taking over him, drawing him to the helpless victims.

It was the woman he approached first, turning her over and smoothing her brunette hair away from her face. He placed a gentle hand against her cooling cheek, a sense of shock overcoming him; she was almost unrecognizable, but Bruce knew her. Knew her features. His eyebrows knitted together as he backed away from her. The feeling of unease began to settle in his stomach as he approached the man who lay unmoving next to her. Everything inside him was telling him to leave-- to exit the alleyway and wait for himself to wake up-- at least if he did he'd remain ignorant.

But Bruce just couldn't resist. He gripped the black material of the overcoat the man wore before roughly turning him over. Lifeless, ice-blue eyes stared back at him-- his own eyes. Bruce felt paralyzed as he stared unblinking at his own deathly pale body lying in the gutter, a mixture of surprise and fear etched onto his face as he died.

The laughter broke out again— amused, maniacal, a child's laughter. Out of the shadows, stepped Damian dressed in his Robin uniform, mask missing; an exact replica of the night before.

Bruce's mouth moved wordlessly as he watched the black-tinged gun slip out of the boy's grasp and fall to the floor in almost slow motion-- like something from a dramatic film right before the hero dies. It fired noisily as soon as it made contact with the ground. Bruce hunched over as he clasped at the wound in his abdomen, he felt the blood trickle past his fingers, dripping onto the ground and mixing with the rainwater.

As his vision began to blur, he dropped to his knees and watched as Damian retreated into the darkness-- now fully clothed in black, the color of the shadows-- a smile graced upon his lips.

***

When Bruce awoke the next morning, he was upset to find the house empty and quiet-- upset, but not surprised.

Last night wasn't exactly what he'd call his finest moment at handling a difficult situation, and contrary to what his boy's believed, Bruce felt every ounce of guilt and shame. He sat in his study, staring blankly at the crinkled adoption papers on his desk, gently running the pad of his thumb over the blank ink of his signature.

"I'll be good," Damian had told him— Insisted that he was nothing like his family, and Bruce had refused to listen. The truth is, Bruce knew first-hand how manipulative— and sometimes cruel— Talia could be, and having known Damian for a short while, he was almost certain he was nothing like her or Ra's. But he couldn't be entirely sure.

He ran a hand over his eyes, rubbing at them gently. He was tired; the kind of tired sleep couldn't fix. He was at a complete loss at what to do; he'd made it clear that Damian couldn't stay in Gotham, but at the same time, he wasn't prepared to let the boy go back to something he'd tried so hard to escape from.