Work Text:
Quite honestly not a lot of people spent their time wondering what the bats do when they’re not patrolling.
Assumably they have a place to go, but of all the strange things about that clan, the last thing that most people question was where they rest their bodies.
There were a few people who speculate that they simply vanish in the shadows, only coming out when needed.
Unfortunately, that theory went out the window when they saw Red Robin appear in a coffee shop, buying a large cup filled with espresso, then sitting on a building drinking it.
Not exactly a necessity for the fate of humanity.
Other theories pose that they are living regular lives like you or I going to work, and paying rent, also not a bad theory, and to some extent true.
They are still out in the daily world, hidden away and out of sight.
To a certain degree.
No matter how hard you try, you can't always keep the blood from soaking in your shirt, or the matts in your hair tucked into a hat.
Certainly, don't have day jobs, or go to school.
Certainly don't pay rent.
The abandoned Wayne Manor has been left vacant for years now.
Slowly decaying away from disuse, with it being more hazardous to squat inside it than it was to sleep outside the doors.
If you were to open the front door you would find that every doorway and stairwell had been largely blocked by old heavy furniture and graffiti, as well as fluorescent tape advertising ‘danger zone, keep out.’
Should you ignore those obstacles and venture in any way, you would wind up in the hospital for a sudden, spontaneous bout of hysteria, where when you came out of it, couldn't figure out why you had been in the manor in the first place, or who had paid your hospital bills.
Inside the walls of this once regal and lively mansion, now lays the nest for the most elusive vigilante clan in Gotham.
Many may approach this with preconceived notions of what may lay inside.
Some sort of haunted house Spector, with pentagrams on the floor. Perhaps sheets covering everything and the faint wind howling through the drafts.
Neither would be correct.
For the most part, the areas blocked away from the public have hardly changed at all.
Fairly well kept and clean, the furniture only holding a few tears and holes. The floor being mostly stab-free!
Of course, when you have seven ghost children and their ever-elusive caretaker living inside the décor can become… eclectic.
Richard Greyson for instance, growing up in a circus with his parents as the ‘Greyson freakshow.’
Even now able to leap and bend in near impossible ways.
Richard Greyson, now Nightwing, has gone to great lengths to carve in handholds and rope tethers to every part of the house in order to ensure that he could go for days without ever touching the ground.
Going so far as to turn what was his bedroom into his own little funhouse, with games, gym equipment, all the things that he could have seen himself enjoying were he still alive...
Jason Todd, now known as Red Hood, took a very different approach.
He enjoyed the elegant things in the manor, the expensive, extravagant things that screamed out MONEY!
Going into his room and you would find a very different story. Literally.
Floor to ceiling books, everything from horror to nonfiction, to romance, he had it.
Even more so, he had weapons… a lot of them. You would feel as if you just walked into a librarians armory if you went in unprepared.
Something about the money and the little portals to worlds that he could collect reminded him of something he might crave if he were still alive.
Batgirl and Spoiler, thankfully had something less cluttered, the cracks and holes on the walls of the manor finding themselves covered with paintings by Stephanie, hung up to add a bit of life to the drab place. The coverable spots were patched up by Cassandra, the walls re-spackled, floors re-finished, and counters repaired. Both of them enjoy keeping their hands busy.
Their shared space together in the best condition out of all the rooms. Murals on the walls and fairy lights hanging, plush carpet, and a sturdy bed should they choose to use it.
Really shows why they were better than the rest of the house's occupants.
Red Robin is the main target for such teasing. Going out of his way to keep the cable line running and set up as many video games as he could on the moded Xbox he had found.
His room was certainly the most chaotic.
He had a very hard time leaving any and all tech alone no matter the condition, always brushing it off and bringing it back to his stash.
Building everything from high-tech weapons to coffee makers.
He built a lot of coffee makers.
Even though none of them were really able to taste anything strongly, Tim Drake had developed a love for the bitter warm liquid, where drinking enough would cause a hum in his chest where if he didn't think too hard could convince himself it was a heartbeat.
Signal was probably the most rational of the clan. You had to be when out in broad daylight with everyone able to watch you.
He found that while he did enjoy the tech that Tim hoarded if he ever fancied enough to build something he could simply steal from his stash, instead choosing to keep to his old laptop and journals to occasionally scribble out a few ideas or couplets.
Not that anyone got to see.
Around the manor keeping everything in those journals tucked away and locked, as well as adding a few of his own tweaks to the Xbox, where he was more likely to get all the power-ups and advantages when playing against Tim.
Robins's room was what you would expect from an undead child his age, coming from his background.
His door had just about every padlock and latch you could imagine, even if they usually remained mostly undone.
Along with the crazy security came the precious treasures needing protection.
They had first started as someone leaving a stuffed bear on a windowsill with a note saying “For Robin.”
It also may have occurred that that person found a burglar stopped from breaking into their house with a gun.
From there, Damian would occasionally find a teddy bear, a blanket, or some kind of toy left out with the same note.
He had wanted to throw them out, but Batman assured him it was rude to get rid of a gift.
So he kept them in his bedroom out of the way.
The best way to keep them out of the way is to pile them in the corner, even more, efficient if all the coloring books and toys were in the center where only he could crawl into, as a safe spot if needed.
Even more so, should he ever need access to this safe spot, have a string of lights in there next to the only plush he had bothered to name, Titus.
He remembered he used to love dogs. His family's dog was the best boy. Damien hated that he couldn’t remember his name.
He perhaps kept the dog out due to his ever-going delusion of having a dog.
He had always brought it up to Batman, every few years “can I have a dog, can I have a cat?” and so on. Every time Batman gave the same trill of a response.
“It would be unfair to the creature to subject them to our lifestyle, I know you would take good care of it, but some things in our world aren't quite the same for dogs.” and that was the end of it.
He settled for the plush, sometimes doodling pictures of dogs on the back of his coloring sheets in the books given. He was far too skilled for them now, but they were nice to be kept as paper.
Damian wished he could remember his dog's name.
The way that their memories worked was like a stream of water.
They had a bucket that held the same core memories, their names, their best moment, their worst moment, and their death. If they wanted to catch more it was like risking to get rid of what they had already caught.
If they wished to dip their hands in and scoop up the water, it wouldn't be long before it all trailed out, leaving only the residue of emotion, good and bad.
They kept these memories protected fiercely, all of them did. The only people that knew their real names were each other. No one else.
Many of them choose to share their memories with even fewer people.
The only person who knew how all of them died was Bruce, he was the one to find them crawling out of their graves, and him being the first somewhat friendly person, they would tell him everything in those first few days.
He accepted that over time they all placed distance between him and them.
Bruce would love to have the close-knit relationship with them that they had with each other.
However, he understood that all of them had been harmed by those with control over them.
He didn't want to do that.
So long as they knew that he was always in their corner, that was enough for him.
Bruce knew what it was like to be a child, just dead, alone, and scared.
His family butler, Alfred, was the only one who knew for a long time.
He helped Bruce recover, and heal.
He helped Bruce feel alive, and grow up.
Alfred was the reason Bruce made it to adulthood, he had given young Bruce the thing he needed most, something to live for.
He gave him a reason to keep pushing and to always try his best.
When Alfred died… it was like watching his parents get shot all over again.
His heart stopped beating, and he fell back into a death that he hadn't felt in years.
He wished he could help these kids grow like that.
But how could he help them feel alive when he himself didn't?
He couldn't.
The most he could do was give them something to hold onto.
Something to grasp, hope.
A lifeline that allowed them to feel a little less alone.
And if from time to time his chest would give out a low thump.
That was all the confirmation he needed.