Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts as a joke. 

“Alright, Dick,” Bruce chuckles, gently pushing Dick’s stumbling body into his bedroom. “That’s quite enough.” 

Dick’s red-cheeked and laughing to himself, smelling of wine. Though Bruce definitely enjoys watching his adult children share a bottle of good wine over a holiday dinner, it does leave him responsible for babysitting them once the alcohol has hit their system. Jason either has the tolerance of a tank or simply hides his inebriation better than his older brother, so Dick is usually the one Bruce gets to scoop off a couch at the end of the night. At least he’s got a couple more years before a drunk Tim becomes his responsibility. “Into bed with you now,” he says with a smile. “Or you’ll wake up feeling even worse.” 

Dick collapses face-first onto his bed, then rises up onto his elbows. “I—“ he cuts himself off with a chesty laugh. “I need to brush my teeth.” 

Bruce points to the connecting on-suite. “Go, then. Drink a glass of water in there while you’re at it.” 

“Alrighty!” Dick lurches to his feet with alarming speed and careens for his bathroom like he’s being chased. Bruce is tempted to ask him to keep the door unlocked in case he ends up with his head in the toilet.

“Getting Dick to bed?” A voice says behind him. Bruce turns and sees Jason leaned up against the doorframe, looking entirely sober save for the relaxed drooping of his eyelids. 

Bruce gestures to the bathroom, where the sound of Dick’s off-key humming leaks through the closed door. “He’s just brushing his teeth. I assume you’re staying for the night, too.” 

“I don’t drive drunk, Bruce,” Jason says by way of an agreement. “I’ll be out before anyone gets up.” 

He says that every time, and every morning Bruce finds him sitting between Tim and Damian at breakfast so they can’t antagonize each other. Arguing so early in the morning gives him a headache, he says, but that doesn’t stop him from stealing blueberries off Damian’s plate and smirking when Damian tries to stab his hand with a butter knife. Chaos of his own making is an exception to his desire for peaceful mornings, it seems. 

“Mm.” Bruce turns back to Dick’s bed and pulls a corner of the covers back. “I’ll say goodnight to you now, then.” 

“What’s Alfred got planned for breakfast?” Jason’s subtlety escapes him once he’s had a few drinks. 

Bruce shrugs. “Pancakes, I think. His crepe batter was too thin last month and that usually puts him off doing them for the next couple weeks.” He smoothes the covers flat. “You’re welcome to join us.” 

Jason makes a non-committal noise. “I’ll think about it.” 

“All good. Goodnight, Jason. I love you.”

Jason’s voice is already halfway down the hall by the time he answers. “Night night, old man.” 

The water in the bathroom shuts off and Dick reappears a second later, licking moisture off his lips. His eyelids are rapidly drooping. “Aww,” he coos, jerking side to side in what Bruce can only assume is an attempt at wiggling his shoulders suggestively. “Are you going to tuck me in?”

Bruce holds the corner of the blankets up. “Get in,” he says, shooting for sternness but ending up fond. “I won’t pick you up if you end up on the floor between there and here.” 

Dick grins and takes his time sauntering to his bed, dopily dancing from side to side. He reminds Bruce a little of those waving blow-up things stuck outside car dealerships. “I can sleep on the floor,” he says. “I’ve done it before. I’m hardy.” 

“You’re drunk,” Bruce replies. “And you need a proper bed.” 

“Nonsense.” Dick pitches sideways onto his bed and curls his long legs to his chest. “ Fuck , I love these sheets.” 

“I’ll forward your praises to Alfred.” 

Bruce pulls the sheets and covers back over him, but Dick wiggles one arm free and grasps in Bruce’s direction. “Tuck me in,” he says insistently. “Tuck me in like I’m small again.” 

Bruce stops. “Are you serious?” 

Dick nods, wiggling under his covers. “A formal request.” 

There’s something nostalgic about the way he gazes up at Bruce, framed by navy blue pillows, covers tucked up to his chin. He’s been a grown man for a decade, having cleaved his independence through endless screaming arguments and one awful fight that still aches to think about all these years later. They’ve long since worked out their differences, but that doesn’t mean Bruce doesn’t kowtow to any opportunity he sees to remedy some of the pain he’s caused.

“Fine,” he says. “Only if you promise to stay in bed.” 

Dick lights up and laughs as Bruce smooths the heavy blankets over him, pulling it nearly over his head with how far up it goes. A near-forgotten muscle memory kicks in; Bruce tucks in the sheet near Dick’s neck so no air can slip in, then travels down the length of his body, pushing the blankets in tight. Dick’s so tall that his feet nearly hit the end of the bed, but he’s curled in on himself enough for Bruce to have enough room to tuck his feet in too. “There,” Bruce says once he’s done, smoothing the blankets again for good measure. “That what you wanted?”

Dick, heavy-lidded and still smiling, shakes his head. “You’re forgetting the most important part.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I am?”

“Do you not remember?” Dick scoffs. Then he lifts his head ever so slightly, staring at Bruce expectantly. 

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes a laugh. “Really?”

“Duh. It’s part of the whole shebang. The closing ceremonies. The cherry on top.”

“Good grief,” Bruce scoffs under his breath, but he still leans forward and presses his lips to Dick’s forehead. The mintiness of toothpaste combined with the sourness of wine is an odd smell, but his temporary disgust pales in comparison to the warmth that washes over him. “There, child of mine. Good enough for you?”

Dick takes a moment to decide. “I think so,” he says primly, unable to keep his voice from wavering with another laugh. “You are dismissed.”

Bruce gently cuffs the side of Dick’s head with his knuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “Alright. I expect you asleep in twenty minutes.”
Dick yawns. “Make it five.”

“Five, then. Good night, Dick. I love you.”

Dick’s voice is already fading. “Love you, Dad.”

It’s hard to keep from smiling the rest of the night. 

Bruce doesn’t think too much about his tender little moment with Dick after that. It’s a nice memory, but the banalities of civilian life and Gotham’s ever-present crime problem keep him from reminiscing too deeply. Dick goes back to Bludhaven, Jason goes back to… wherever it is that he goes and promptly drops off the map for two whole weeks. It’s not the first time he’s done that and it certainly won’t be the last, but Bruce can’t help but worry anyway. Life in the manor is calm but tense; Tim and Damian aren’t what he’d call friends, but Damian’s stopped his murder attempts and the two of them have grown adept at avoiding each other. It does make for very silent, awkward dinners, but Bruce remains hopeful that they’ll find common ground one day. If Jason and Tim can learn to like one another, then Damian and Tim are bound to follow behind. 

Bruce is still neck-deep in his thoughts when he passes by one of the guest bedrooms and sees a familiar dark head poking out of the blankets.

“Cass?” He opens the half-open door a little wider, letting the light from the hall stream in. “That you?” 

Cassandra slips a hand from her fortress of blankets and waves at him. She doesn’t look injured or upset — if anything, the gleam in her dark eyes is mischievous. Bruce cracks a smile as she beckons him closer. “Glad to see you back around. Why didn’t you come down for dinner?”

Cass shrugs, still smiling, and Bruce realizes she’s dressed in a loose t-shirt, her dark hair loosely braided, and there isn’t a new bruise or bandage on her to be seen. The gentle scent of Stephanie’s fancy new moisturizer wafts off her. She looks comfortable, and that’s a rarity for someone like Cassandra. He leans down and gives her a long hug. “I’m glad you came around for the night. Alfred doesn’t keep all these guest bedrooms fresh for nothing. Do you want me to leave you to sleep?”

Cass breaks away from the hug and flops back onto her pillow, eyes glittering. She looks as if she’s waiting for him to say something. Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Is that a yes? Should I go?”

Cass lets out a breathy laugh, and the sound of her voice makes Bruce feel warm. “Okay,” he says, chuckling. “Not everyone’s been trained to read body language like you have. Give me a bone, teeny miss.”

Cass pats her blanket, then pushes it under her thigh with her fingertips. “Tuck,” she says, almost shyly. “Tuck in.”

Another familiar memory floats to the surface of Bruce’s mind. He can’t stop the smile that creeps across his face. “Did Dick put you up to this?” Cass couldn’t have found out about his little moment with Dick unless Dick or Jason had told her themselves, and the thought of her finding the story so pleasant that she had to try it out for herself is almost painful in its innocence. “Have you ever even been tucked in before?”

“No,” Cass laughs, like that fact should have been obvious. “Show me.”

Bruce has never been good at saying no to Cassandra (mostly because she simply doesn’t listen if he tries to), so he acquiesces with a dramatic sigh and lets Cass make herself comfortable under the sheets. “Do you want your arms in or out?” He asks, motioning to the hands she has crossed over her chest. Cass, mystified, takes a moment to weigh both options, before sliding her arms under the covers and crossing them back over her chest under there. She looks up at Bruce proudly, her dark eyes shining. Bruce’s chest swells.

Alright, sue him. After so many boys (who he loves dearly and all equally , thank you very much), it’s hard not to be excited to have a girl or two in the house. Even Steph, who seems to have made it her life’s purpose to be the human equivalent of a wrinkle in Bruce’s sock, fills him with a special kind of warmth. He never got a sister, and the few memories of his mother that he still has are blurry and unfocused. If there’s one thing the manor needs, it’s a little less testosterone.

“Alright,” He says, pushing the blankets in around her neck. Cass giggles the moment Bruce touches her. “Hey, take this seriously. This is a bonafide Wayne family tradition you’re witnessing here.”

“You did it with Alfred?” Cass asks, giggling again when Bruce tucks in the blanket around her shoulders.

“Are you asking if I tuck Alfred in?” Bruce chuckles. “No, I don’t. Something tells me he wouldn’t be as open to it as you kids are.”

Cass laughs at that; it’s a wonderful, melodic sound. “No! He did it to you!”

“He tucked me in?” Bruce moves down to her legs and takes extra care in tucking those in tightly. Cass looks a bit like a mummy by the time he reaches her feet. A happy, comfortable mummy. “Yes he did, actually. He did it lots.”

“Even now,” Cass says cheekily.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and scoffs. “Yes, actually. He tucks me in every night once you kids are in bed.” He leans forward and kisses the tip of Class’s nose. “Don’t tell the others. Big secret.”

Cass’s eyes fall closed, but she looks no less smug. “I tell Steph.”

Well, Bruce is officially never hearing the end of this one. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.” 

“Good night. Love you too.”

“Bruchester.” 

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Stephanie.” 

Hell is real and the Devil is a person and that person is seventeen-year-old Stephanie Brown with any sort of minor illness. She’s wrapped up on her bed in a throne of about ten blankets; Bruce is pretty sure his own bedsheets are somewhere in there. Maybe even a curtain too. “I wasn’t aware you’d found your way back in here,” he says, walking in and closing the door behind him. “I thought I got all the rat holes patched up.” 

Stephanie looks unimpressed. “Your insults mean nothing to me. I know what Facebook memes make you laugh.” 

“Remind me to tell Alfred to stock up on our nice espresso beans. Tim needs more bribes to not let you in.” 

“You’re the reason that poor boy will never be more than five-foot-seven.” 

Bruce thinks it probably has more to do with the fact that Janet Drake was five-foot-two in life and Jack Drake claimed to be a dubious five-foot-ten when asked, but he takes the insult for what it is. “Less body mass means less area to shoot. I’m just thinking of his safety.” 

“Sure.” Stephanie tosses one of her braids behind her dramatically. “Anyway, it seems you have some favouritism to atone for.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow sceptically. Steph’s been known to claim favouritism when Bruce does as much as pass the salt to Jason over dinner. “Do I now?” 

“Mmhmm.” Stephanie’s eyes narrow. “Cass told me about a particular… tradition in which you’ve been partaking. Without me.” 

So that’s what this is about. Bruce smirks. “Oh, that tradition? The tradition in which I’ve partaken with a whole two of my children?”

“I call sexism.” 

“Fifty percent of the children who’ve partaken in this tradition are girls, Steph.” 

Stephanie sneezes. “I call stephism.” 

“If those were my sheets that you just got your boogers on, then it definitely is stephism.”

“Glad to see you’re showing your true colors.” All at once, Steph pitches back and crosses her arms behind her head on the pillow. “Alright, old man. Get started before I fall asleep.” 

Bruce raises his hands in acquiescence and approaches the bed. The smell of Steph’s good moisturizer overtakes him once more, and he’s brought back into the memory of doing this for another — much more pleasant — daughter of his. “I expect Cass gave you a good review already.” 

“She’s a woman of few words,” Stephanie says. She watches with scrutiny as Bruce strips several of her blankets off her hoard — including, yes, a curtain and several of Bruce’s own sheets — but doesn’t complain when they’re taken away. From the flush on her cheeks, she’d likely been overheating and only keeping the blankets on out of spite anyway. “But she and I? We talk up here.” She taps her temple. “Girl language. No boys allowed.” 

“I see.” Bruce spreads her blanket over her evenly. “Arms in or out?” 

“In,” Steph replies, then makes no effort to put her arms under the blanket. Chuckling to himself, Bruce does it for her. Just as he’s turning away to start tucking in her feet, she clears her throat. “Um, excuse me.” 

“Hm?” Bruce looks up and sees that one of her arms has somehow slid out from under the blanket and is hanging limply off the side of the bed. Stephanie’s looking very skeptical. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He primly grabs her wrist and maneuvers her arm back under the covers. “Not sure how that happened.” 

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “Not off to a good start, Bruce.”

“I assure you, my services are very highly rated.” Bruce pats both her wrists as though to ensure they’ll stay in place. “Just ask Cassie. Or Dick.” 

“Dick rated being shot in the shoulder a seven out of ten. I’m not inclined to believe many of his opinions.” 

“Fair enough.” Bruce tucks the blanket under her feet, then travels up her ankles. Steph clears her throat again. Bruce looks back up at her, but she’s already pointing down towards her feet. When he turns back to them, he finds the blanket flipped back and her feet bared to the air. Her toes wiggle at him accusingly. “Good heavens,” he says, wiping his brow with faux anxiety. “I don’t know what’s going on. This has never happened before.” 

“You’re getting old, Brucie,” Stephanie laments. 

“Dick told me I don’t look a day over fifty.” 

“Dick is a dirty little liar!” 

“Oh, have mercy.” 

Stephanie kicks her whole leg off the bed. “Jesus Christ, Bruce!” The other one slides off into Bruce’s arms as he bends to pick it up. “You suck at this!” 

“I— I don’t know what’s going on!” Bruce ducks under Steph’s arm as that comes flying off the bed too and suddenly he’s falling back flat on his ass with a lapful of shriek-laughing teenage girl, still wrapped in her blankets. “Shit— Stephanie! ” 

Steph’s laughter reaches a raucous crescendo and turns abruptly into a wheezing cough. Bruce pulls the blanket off of her and finds her giggling, shivering with exhaustion and so red in the face it reminds him of Dick. 

“You—“ She coughs again. “You’re so stupid. I hate you.” 

Maybe Bruce would be more inclined to believe her if she weren’t still grinning from ear to ear. Wordlessly, he scoops her up, blankets and all, and gently deposits her back onto her bed. “I like to think you benefit from my stupidity overall.” 

“I benefit from the inheritance you definitely have for me.” 

“Nope. Nothing for you.” Bruce smooths the blankets out and stuffs them back in at the end of the bed. “Cass gets everything.” 

“She’ll give me half. I’m her favourite.” 

“Good. You girls stick together.” Bruce travels up the lines of her legs, tucking in her sheets and covers as he goes. It’s a well-traveled path at this point. “I don’t know how you’ve stayed sane in a house full of boys.” 

Steph shrugs. “I bit Tim yesterday because he was bothering me.”

“Hm.” Bruce chuckles. “That’s one way to go about it.” 

He finishes with the blankets and then moves onto her pillows, making a big show of fluffing up each one before letting her have them. Then he finds her favorite throw blanket and drapes that over her too. “There,” He says. “Up to your standards, miss Brown?”

Steph’s eyes are closed. “Acceptable. Go get me a sinus pill.”

Bruce fetches one from her bathroom (it’s a wonder he manages to find it through the ocean of different products she’s got in there. She’s somehow worse than Dick) and brings it out to her. “There’s one last part of this, you know.” He sets the pill down on her bedside table beside her glass of water. “Not necessary for the full experience, but it’s there if you—” 

Stephanie holds out a hand. “I don’t want to sneeze on you,” she murmurs. 

Bruce gives a little peck to the back of her palm. “You’re one thoughtful girl, Steph.” 

Steph smiles again. “Oh, shut it.” 

Bruce doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having someone in his house with a somewhat normal sleep schedule. It’s hardly even sundown; most of his other children are busy suiting up downstairs, but when Bruce knocks on Duke’s door, all he hears from within are snores. He lets himself in quietly and moves to Duke’s bedside, where Duke lays splayed out on his stomach over his blankets, fast asleep. The room is dark, thanks to the special blackout curtains Bruce had installed to help with his light sensitivity, but a single ray of orangeish sunshine sweeps lazily through the shadows on Duke’s wall like a shimmering snake. Bruce watches it for a moment, a little spellbound. 

Metahumans. Endless entertainment. 

Abruptly, the ray of light dissipates into nothing, and Duke raises himself up onto his elbows with a sleepy murmur. “Bruce?” He wipes at his eyes. “Sorry. I passed out the second I got home.”

“It’s nothing, Duke.” Bruce puts a hand on Duke’s back and pats it gently. “Patrol took you out?”

Duke laughs tiredly. “Oh, it always does. I hope I left some bad guys for you to take care of tonight.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, feeling a rush of warmth and affection. “How thoughtful.”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

Duke’s voice is rapidly fading (as is Bruce’s vision of his corporeal form), so Bruce pats his back with a little more force. “Alright, Signal. No falling asleep in your jeans. Go get changed and get into bed.”

Duke groans into his pillow. “I am in bed.”

“In day clothes. You’ll be all out of sorts tomorrow morning if you sleep like this.”

“Leave me to my bad choices.”

“Duke.”

“ Please .”

“I’m getting Dick.”

Duke is on his feet between one blink and the next. “You play dirty, old man,” he grumbles, bending down to fish a pair of pajamas from the piles of clothes he has strewn about his floor.

Bruce fights to keep the smile off his face as Duke stumbles into his on-suite and closes the door behind him. “You’ve been spending too much time around Jason.”

“The guy is a riot!” There’s the sound of a tap turning on. “And he’s got a Switch at his apartment. I am a simple man.”

A few minutes later, Duke steps out of his bathroom and makes a beeline for his bed. Bruce holds the blankets up for him as he collapses onto the mattress, reminded instantly of Dick when Duke lets his limbs flop in every direction. “Bedtime,” Duke murmurs, mostly to himself. The shadows in the room shift around them until they’re settled around them like a thick fog. Bruce can barely see past his own hands.

“You didn’t need those blackout curtains, did you?” Bruce asks.

“Nah,” Duke responds sleepily. “But I’m lazy, and they make it easier.”

“Then they’re worth it.” Bruce lays Duke’s blanket out over top of him and tucks him in swiftly. It’s easy to think of Duke as a son, but he’s still Bruce’s newest charge. A charge with living – if not incapacitated – parents. As naturally as the affection comes to him, Bruce knows there is a line he will not cross. Thankfully, Duke seems to enjoy being tucked in and lets out a long sigh. “You’re worth it.”

When Bruce goes to tuck Duke in around the neck, one of his hands slips out from under the blanket and grabs Bruce by the wrist. He squeezes hard for a moment or two before letting his wrist go. “You’re something else, Duke,” Bruce murmurs, running his hand through Duke’s cropped hair. “I’m proud of you. I hope you know that.”

Duke mumbles something into his pillow, and he sounds happy enough. Bruce leans down and presses a quick kiss to his temple, secretly grateful he hits his target with how dark it is. “See you in the morning. Alfred will be downstairs all night if you need him.”

No answer. Duke’s already asleep again. 

Patrol that night is a little sweeter, knowing at least one of his children is safe at home.

Tim’s been at this case for days now, and Bruce thinks it’s going to drive them both insane. 

“Tim?” Bruce steps closer. Tim, hunched over his desk, doesn’t even seem to notice he’s there. “Tim. Buddy.”

“Hm?” Tim doesn’t turn to look at him. His eyes are trained on the screen, on the report he’s been working on with near feverish fervor since Bruce came down into the cave that morning. It’s nearly midnight now, and Bruce would bet every penny of his fortune that Tim hasn’t left his chair for more than two minutes that whole time. “Oh,” Tim murmurs, blinking slowly. “Hey, Bruce.”

“Tim,” Bruce repeats. He puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder and tries not to wince as his fingers move over the bony lump of Tim’s collarbone. “I think it’s time to wrap it up for the night.”

“No,” Tim says immediately. “I’m trying to find the security footage from the junkyard on Pleasant Park. One of the angles has a great view of Fourth street.”

Bruce sighs. Pulling Tim away from his work – especially when it involves missing children – is never an easy task, but Tim looks like he’s one cough away from cardiac arrest. Bruce drops his hand to the back of Tim’s chair and pulls on it lightly, rolling Tim a couple inches away from his computer. Tim makes an angry noise and grabs onto the edge of the desk. “Stop it!” He snaps. “I’m working!”

“You’re done for the night, Tim. You’ve been up for something like seventy-two hours.”

“I don’t care! This is important!” 

“ Tim. ” A bit of the Batman voice leaks through. Tim’s always listened to Batman more than he ever did to Bruce Wayne. “You’re of no use when you’re exhausted. Go to bed for the night and I’ll put Duke on the case for you until you wake up.” 

That’s apparently the wrong thing to say. Tim practically snarls. “No! This is my fucking case, and I’m going to work on it until it’s done.” He shoves Bruce away and turns back to screen, hunching forward like a starving dog over food. “Now fuck off .” 

Bruce closes his eyes and sighs. He loves Tim. He really does. He loves Tim’s big, compassionate heart and the genius brain that sits between his ears. He loves Tim’s dedication to his work and the way he can jump between sharp, capricious Red Robin and sleepy, sarcastic seventeen-year-old Timothy Drake between one blink and the next. Bruce sees so much of himself in Tim that it’s hard sometimes to not believe he’s staring at his own teenage reflection. 

Tim’s also the reason Bruce thinks he’ll be entirely gray by the end of the year. No, month. Maybe even the end of the night.

“Tim.” Bruce steps closer and lays both his hands on Tim’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing the back of his neck. All of his boys run cold, but Tim’s skin is particularly chilly under his fingers. “I’m not giving you a suggestion. This is an order. You’re done for the night.” 

“No I’m not,” Tim hisses back.

“Yes you are.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“ Tim .” Is this what he was like to deal with at this age? No wonder Alfred’s practically bald. “I will bench you if you aren’t taking care of yourself.” 

“Stop it,” Tim growls, as though he’s the one who could dole out a benching to Bruce and not the other way around. “The longer you bother me, the longer this takes.” 

“That’s not how this works.” Bruce circles the side of Tim’s chair and pushes him away again, harder this time. “You’re done.” 

That’s enough to make Tim rise from his seat on unsteady legs and jab a finger straight into the center of Bruce’s chest. “What’s your fucking problem? You’re not the boss of me.” 

“That’s exactly what I am, Red Robin.” Bruce wraps his fingers around Tim’s wrist and tugs it sideways, turning him towards the stairs. “Come on. Upstairs.” 

“ Stop! Stop fucking doing that!” Tim shoves him again, hard. Bruce catches his other wrist and holds them tight as Tim tries to yank himself away. “Let go of me!”

“Tim,” Bruce tries to say soothingly. “Tim—“

Tim’s voice rises to a shriek. “Let go of me!”

“Tim, there’s no need to scream—“

“Fuck off! Fuck off !” Tim yells. “You’re not listening to me!” 

“Because you’re screaming.” 

“You’re not my fucking dad! You can’t tell me what to do!”

Bruce closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. Tim struggles valiantly for another minute, hurling insults and one particularly painful kick to Bruce’s shin, before it finally seems to dawn on him that his efforts are in vain. Then starts the bargaining. Tim might be crafty, but Bruce has been through raising Dick. No one — not even Damian — can throw a tantrum like a circus-born orphaned acrobat. 

“Bruce,” Tim moans, and his voice cracks down the middle. “Please.” 

Bruce shakes his head silently. There’s no reasoning with Tim when he gets like this. All he can do is plant himself straight in his path and hope he’s strong enough to stop the hurricane. 

“You’re not listening to me,” Tim says through gritted teeth. His voice grows shakier with every word. “I’m— I have to work , Bruce. I have shit to do.” 

“You’re done for the night,” Bruce repeats, keeping his grip on Tim’s wrists tight but his eyes soft. If Tim thinks he’s angry, then he’ll plummet into a full breakdown. Bruce would rather avoid that for both their sakes.

“You don’t get it.” Tim sniffles. “I have to work. I have to. There are people missing, Bruce. Children !”

“You’re of no use when you’re exhausting yourself. I need you to sleep.” 

“ No! ” Tim’s eyes fill with tears. “I can’t!” 

“You can and you will. Do you want to walk with me, or do I have to carry you?” 

Tim makes a high, strangled noise in the back of his throat and tries again to tug his wrists from Bruce’s grip. Bruce uses the leverage to pull them another couple steps forward. “If you don’t want to walk, I will pick you up. You can’t stay standing here.” 

“I don’t want to,” Tim hiccups.

“You’ve got to. Come on, now.” 

“Bruce, come on.” Tim digs his heels into the ground when Bruce pulls at him again, but it’s hard to keep himself in place when he only weighs a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. “This isn’t fair!” 

“Maybe not, but I’m the boss. I’m making the decisions whether you like it or not.” 

“ Stop it! ” Tim’s voice breaks on a sob. The rest of his composure collapses in on itself. “I hate you!” 

Bruce swiftly takes advantage. “Alright. That’s enough.” He leans forward and sweeps Tim straight off his feet. “You’re going to your room and you’re going to sleep. End of story.” 

“ No !” Tim kicks out wildly, but Bruce is quick to regain his balance. He immobilizes Tim’s legs with one arm and holds him close to his chest with the other. Tim’s no wilting wallflower when it comes to physical strength, but after days of no sleep and little nourishment, he’s no match for Bruce. That doesn’t stop him from trying, though. “Fuck you! Put me down! Put me the fuck down , Bruce!” 

“Negative.” Bruce somehow maneuvers him and his unwilling cargo up the cave stairs and enters into his darkened office. Alfred is sitting at the desk, looking as though he somehow knew exactly what was going to happen when Bruce went down to fetch Tim all of ten minutes before. “Master Bruce,” he says evenly. Tim momentarily lessens in his struggle, but one look into Alfred’s soft, worn-out expression sends him into a fit of sobs. “Oh, child,” he murmurs, and Tim only cries harder.

“I’m taking him up to his room. He’s to stay there all night,” Bruce tells him. “If you see him out at all, you’re to tell me.” 

“I won’t need to. He’ll end up back in bed no matter what.” 

“Shut up!” Tim screams. “Shut up!”

Alfred’s mouth quirks. “I think that’s your cue to get this young man to bed. If you would, Master Bruce.” 

Tim’s still sobbing by the time they reach his room. Bruce sets him down on his unmade bed and maneuvers him onto his side, keeping a hand on his shoulder to stop him from going to stand up. “Easy,” he murmurs. Tim makes a wretched gasping noise. “Easy, buddy.” 

Tim kicks out and sends a strewn pillow flying. “Fuck you!”

“Let it out.” Bruce lifts his arm when Tim’s hands fly up towards his face, but he quickly goes to pull them away when he realizes how roughly Tim is scrubbing and scratching at his eyes. “Hey, hey. None of that. None of that.” 

“Go away!” Tim sobs. 

“I’m staying right here until you calm down. You don’t need to hurt yourself.” 

“Fuck off!” 

The door behind him creaks quietly. Bruce twists his head and sees a shadow lingering behind a crack in the doorway, watching them with wary eyes. Damian. Bruce gently motions for him to close the door; Damian and Tim are cordial at best, and seeing the kid while in such a vulnerable position is sure to send Tim careening into even more of a meltdown. Luckily, Damian obeys him and the door is shut long before Tim twists onto his side and starts pushing at Bruce’s side with his fists. “Get off!” He snaps. “Get off my bed! You’re fucking with the blankets!” 

Bruce stands. “Why don’t—“ he winces as Tim delivers a swift punch to a sore spot on his thigh. “Why don’t we make your bed together, Tim? That’ll make you feel better.” 

“It’s fucked up!” Tim wails. “My sheets are— they’re fucked!”

Bruce stands. Now alone on his bed, Tim shrinks into a little ball and fists his hands in his hair. Part of his fitted sheet has come loose in his struggle and Tim shies away from it as though it’s burning him. Without saying a word, Bruce crosses over to the other side of the bed and tugs it back into place. 

He has a brief but clear memory of Alfred doing the same thing for him years ago. 

It’s several more minutes of fitful tossing and bawling until Tim’s energy finally starts to wane. Bruce feels a rush of relief when Tim finally slumps back, puffy-eyed and trembling, and sits back down on the side of his bed. “Tim?” He murmurs. “Feeling better?”

Tim curls around him like a cat, face burrowed in the side of Bruce’s thigh. “Y-yeah, I think so.”

Bruce puts a hand in his hair. “There we go. Easy, now.” 

“Fuck,” Tim says weakly, wiping at his eyes. The effect of being horizontal on a comfy bed finally hits him, and Bruce watches the tension slough off him in great waves, leaving the sort of exhaustion that can only be cried out and trembled through in its wake. “Jesus. I’m sorry, Bruce.” 

“You’re alright,” Bruce says, petting his hair affectionately. “I know how you get.” 

“It’s stupid,” Tim sniffles. “It’s— I just have so much to do, and—“ 

“I know. I know.”  

“Fuck.” Tim coughs. It’s a wet, ugly noise. “I hate this. I hate it so much.” 

“You’re preaching to the choir, buddy.” Bruce now gets what Alfred meant when he said nobody takes a child’s misery more personally than a parent. “But you’re okay now. You’re okay.” 

Tim is silent for a moment, mouth twisted. Then he shifts uncomfortably. “I want to change.” 

“I’ll bring you some pajamas. Go wash your face and brush your teeth, okay?” Bruce pats his leg. “You’ll feel better afterwards.” 

Tim obeys with a small nod, cheeks flushing with embarrassment, and disappears silently into his cluttered on-suite. Bruce ends up tugging a random pair of shorts and a large T-shirt out of his messy drawers and setting them outside the bathroom door for Tim to grab, then does his best to smooth out Tim’s bed. He’s no Alfred, but he can make a teenager’s bed, thank you very much. By the time Tim comes shuffling back into the room, looking much cleaner but no less scooped clean from the inside out, Bruce has got the lamp lit and has one of the blanket’s corners pulled back for Tim to slip inside. “Come on, Tim,” he says. “Bedtime.” 

Tim looks at the bed, then at Bruce, and his expression crumbles. He crosses the distance between them in a few shaky steps, but rather than get into bed, throws his arms around Bruce and presses himself into his chest as though he were trying to step right through him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into Bruce’s sternum. “Thank you. I’m sorry.“

Bruce cups the back of Tim’s head and sits back on the bed, pulling Tim down onto him. “It’s no problem. I’m always here for you.” 

Tim burrows closer, pressing his nose to the dip of Bruce’s collarbone. “You’re good to me, Bruce. I’m so grateful for that. I am. I really am.” 

“You don’t have to be grateful,” Bruce says. 

“But I am. I am,”  Tim replies nervously. 

“I know you are. You’re a good kid.” 

Tim inhales shakily. “You’re the closest thing to a — a dad that I have left. I’m sorry I said you weren’t. I’m sorry.”

So that’s what this is about. Bruce moves the hand cupping Tim’s head downward and starts rubbing his back. Tim melts into him, still sniffling. “Ah. I see.”

Bruce’s boys have always had complex relationships with calling him Dad— that’s simply a fact. Damian’s never called him anything except ‘Father’ or the occasional pejorative he’s picked up from his brothers; Jason prefers to stick with his name or ‘Old Man’ when he wants to take advantage of his tuggable heartstrings; up until just recently, Tim had living parents of his own; Duke hasn’t been around long enough to see Bruce as anything more than a mentor; and Dick didn’t start calling him Dad until he was well into adulthood. It’s never bothered Bruce; he knows all too well that being a parent has nothing to do with the name you’re called, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t cherish whenever one of his boys slips up. Sue him — he’s a man of simple pleasures. 

Tim wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I love you, Bruce. You’ve really helped me out. I’m sorry if I was mean—“

“Shh,” Bruce says again, before Tim can ramble himself into another meltdown. “Tim, you’re okay. I’ll always be here for you no matter what.” 

Tim sobs into the fabric of Bruce’s shirt. “I miss my dad,” he hiccups, and Bruce is once again starkly reminded of just how young he is. “I miss my mom and dad, Bruce.” 

Bruce winces and holds Tim even tighter. The Drakes have always been unique characters in Bruce’s life — they were nice enough while alive, if not ill-suited for the dedication of parenthood, but the product of those two sharp, flighty people turned out to be one of the finest people Bruce has the pleasure of knowing. He loves them for making Tim; he hates them for leaving him alone so often; he pities them for not being able to see him grow up. 

“I know, bud. I know.” Bruce presses a kiss to Tim’s hair. “I know how much you loved them.” 

“I feel like it’s never going to get better.”

“It will. You grow. You find others to love.” 

Bruce did. It’ll never fill the hole in his heart his parents left, but it grew things around it. His boys take up more than enough space within him. 

“I’m just so tired,” Tim whispers. “I’m tired of hurting.” 

“Let’s get you into bed, then.” Bruce pulls back and drags his thumbs under Tim’s swollen eyes. “We can talk about all this more in the morning.” 

Tim closes his eyes and nods. “Okay.” 

He pushes off of Bruce on shaky legs and practically drags himself under his newly-made covers. Bruce swiftly tucks him in, the feeling of blankets under his fingers more than familiar at this point. Fluffing up the pillow under Tim’s head elicits a weak chuckle, which Bruce takes as a victory. If nothing else, Tim looks comfortable when Bruce finishes, and the hurricane that had raged within him has finally run its course.

All that’s left is a tired, tired teenager. Bruce’s teenager. Bruce’s child .

Bruce leans down, cups Tim’s face in both hands, and kisses his forehead. “Goodnight, Tim. You’re all good now.” 

Tim nods, looking up at him with big, watery eyes. Bruce fights the urge to lean down and hug him again — Tim’s a solid cuddler on a good day, but he tends to need his space more after a big blow up. What he likes to know is that he’s safe. Loved. Protected. What he likes is to know that someone is there . 

“Want me to stay in here?” Bruce asks. “I can go get a book.” 

With that, the last bit of tension melts from Tim’s face. “Yeah. Thank you.”

By the time Bruce makes it back with a book and a mug of tea, Tim’s already asleep. Bruce sits there with him until morning anyway.

“Jesus–” Bruce slams the door of the Batmobile shut with enough force to rattle the windows. “Drive, Dick. Drive !”

A white-faced Nightwing slams the car into drive and they careen into the shadowy streets of Gotham at what feels like a hundred miles an hour. The air smells like burnt rubber and the sickening tang of blood. Bruce’s right calf is screaming, but the pain feels far away as he rips off his gauntlets and presses his hands to the gaping wound in Jason’s abdomen. “Come on!” He shouts over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. “Come on, Jay. Breathe! Breathe !”

Jason’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth moving without sound. His face and neck are strikingly clean compared to the rest of him, but he’s so pale he looks practically green. Bruce pulls one hand from the pulsing, spurting hole in his son and cups his cheek. Jason’s eyes move in his direction but can’t seem to focus on him directly. “You with me, Jay? Stay awake.” He so rarely gives orders to Jason. Jason so rarely listens . But here, now, Bruce needs him to follow his every fucking word. “Stay awake, chum. I’ve got you.”

The car takes a sharp turn and Jason slides farther into the batmobile’s spacious back seat with a strangled whine. “Careful!” Bruce barks to Dick. 

“Shut up!” Dick shrieks back, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. 

Bruce bites his tongue and turns his focus back to Jason. Jason’s got one hand on his stomach, patting the wound with shaking fingers. Blood bubbles under his palm with each breath he takes. “Fuck,” he whispers laboriously. “Fuck, he– he got–”

Agony takes the words from his lungs and his eyes roll back. “Don’t speak,” Bruce orders, shifting his odd position so he can easily lean over the seat and press both his hands back on Jason’s stomach. His hand leaves a stark handprint of darkness on his son’s sallow cheek. 

Bruce’s world is crumbling in from all sides.

In the end, it hadn’t even been a formidable enemy. It hadn’t been the Joker, or Deathstroke, or some all-powerful being from another planet that they had no chance of stopping. It hadn’t been another explosion or a fire or the collapse of a roof. In the end, it had been Bruce’s oldest and most unpredictable enemy – a man. A man and the consequences of a single, split-second decision.

Though it happened all of ten minutes ago, Bruce can’t even remember the man’s face. He can’t remember any of their faces. He remembers Tim dropping down on them like a specter of terror and the way they scattered like rats. He remembers gunshots flying, pinging off of armour. He remembers men falling, escaping, before Cass took them out at the knees. 

In their collective, asinine panic, the men began to tip the many crates stacked around them in an attempt to make space between them and the bats. Dick and Jason went vaulting over them in tandem, shrieking taunts and insults (and rubber bullets, in Jason’s case). Like a bloodhound to an injured hare, Damian took to the scent of duty. Of camaraderie. Of fun. He went sprinting after them in a brightly-coloured blur.

In one of these crates had been thin metal pipes. Or perhaps it had been a piece of the crate itself. Bruce isn’t sure. All he knows is that a long piece of metal had ended up in the fist of some burly idiot with more muscle than brain and more greed than courage. It had glinted in the warehouse light as he swung it around madly, missing Bruce’s children as they danced around him like living shadows. They’d all been antsy that night. Brimming with excitement. Drunk on adventure. 

Damian had gotten brave. He’d gotten close to their target, who’d bellowed at the sight of him like an elephant scared of a mouse. That’s when Bruce had realized how sharp the pipe was, as it arced through the air like an executioner’s axe, never finding its target. 

It had happened all at once. Bruce had blinked, too far to help, and the man had gotten Damian by the throat in one pudgy hand. He held the pipe up high, sharp tip pointed downwards, and even the bolt of electricity that Dick’s escrima stick blew into him from behind hadn’t been enough to stop the momentum of him swinging it down like a bowling ball. Another blink. Jason had grabbed Damian by the back of the neck and twisted, pushing Damian out of and himself into the path of the man’s ire and Bruce could only watch as the sharp tip of the metal pipe pierced the front of Jason’s armour and kept going.

Time had slowed. Then it had stopped altogether. 

Then the stupid fucker had gone and yanked it out.

Streetlights flash by so fast they look like strobes. Bruce swears that Jason’s face looks worse with every brief illumination. They’re running out of time. “How close?” He demands. 

“Turning in!” Dick responds. “Alfred’s got a gurney. Damian and Tim are already home. Cass and Steph said they’re finishing up with the cops.”

Bruce nods. His legs are stiff, his knees burning with the effort of keeping himself hunched and half-upright between the front and back seats of the car. Jason’s holding his wrist now, his fingers loose. A blink – Jason’s eyes are open. Another – they’ve closed. There’s blood on his lips. There’s blood everywhere.

“Stay awake!” Bruce roars, like that’ll help anything. “Stay awake, Jason! Please!”

“Be ready to get out in ten seconds!” Dick commands. “Exit to your right – Alfred’s waiting on the left side with the gurney.”

The world slides back into place. Bruce swallows his despair. “Ready.”

Jason’s limp now. Ten. Nine. Eight. Bruce looks at him, studies the wretched youthfulness of his face. Seven. Six. Five. Four. He presses a kiss to Jason’s forehead. Just because he can. Just because he may never be able to again. Three. Two. One.

The car doors open; the world explodes into motion. Jason is dragged out of the car by the shoulders and placed on a gurney, which Dick and Alfred then roll into the med bay at the speed of light. Tim appears at Bruce’s side with a roll of gauze. “You’ve been hit!” He says, pulling Bruce onto a bench. Bruce stands to follow Jason, but Tim holds firm. The kid is a powerhouse when he wants to be. “Sit down. Let me bandage your leg.” 

“Jason,” Bruce gasps, because that’s the only word his lips seem capable of forming. “ Jason– ”

“Unless you’ve become a surgeon in the last ten seconds, then you’ll be of no use in there!” Tim snaps. He drops to his knees and tears what remains of the kevlar on Bruce’s leg away with a single swipe of a blade. “Leslie’s in there too. Alfred knew we wouldn’t have enough time to get him to the clinic. If he can be saved, then we’ve got the best people in there helping him. There’s nothing you can do.”

There’s nothing you can do. The words repeat on a loop between Bruce’s ears. He’s vaguely aware of pain as Tim sprays the slash in his calf with antiseptic spray, but his despair is the only thing he seems capable of holding onto with both hands. Every other emotion flits away from him like balloons in the wind. There’s nothing I can do. 

Some time later, Dick comes out of the med bay, looking as though the weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders. Bruce looks up at him as he approaches, smelling the sterile misery that wafts off him like perfume. Dick collapses next to him on the bench and curls into his side, eyes pressed into Bruce’s shoulder. “Oh my God,” he croaks. “Oh my God.” 

Bruce raises his hand and rubs the back of Dick’s neck. Words feel far away, and they’re all but useless now. There’s nothing Bruce can say that will make things better. Idly, he shifts his right leg. The bandage burns.

“Alfred wants me to take the kids upstairs,” Dick says quietly. “We all need sleep.” 

Bruce nods mutely. Dick doesn’t bother asking him to come up and sleep too — they both know that’s a futile request. “Cass and Steph are home. They’re okay,” Dick continues. “Tim’s got a few cuts and bruises and I haven’t even seen Damian since we got home but—“ 

“Where’s Damian?” Bruce interrupts. 

“He’s safe. Tim brought him home. Apparently he just bolted upstairs the moment they got Jason in.” 

Bruce nods again. “Keep an eye out for him. I will too.”

Dick stands abruptly. Bruce’s hand falls from his neck. “Leslie’s gone, but she’ll come back if anything happens. Jason’s alive, but he’s not stable. Alfred’s focused on getting him through the night.” Dick’s voice is curt and monotonous, as though he were reading out a list inside his head. “You should be with him.”

“Alright,” Bruce says. “Go to sleep, Dick.”

“And–” Dick stops. His face tightens. “Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“Wake me up,” Dick grits out. Tears gather on his waterline. “I fucking mean it, Bruce. If he starts to fade, you have to wake me up. I have to be there this time–”

“I will. I promise.” Bruce stands up to pull him in for a hug and Dick lets a sob loose into his shoulder. “I’ll wake all of you up.”

The idea of running upstairs and shaking Dick out of slumber to tell him that his brother is dying again is something straight out of Bruce’s nightmares, but he’ll do it. If Jason’s going to die tonight, then he’ll die surrounded by his family. Safe. Comfortable. Clean and whole and dignified.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” Dick whispers. “I can’t fucking do it.” 

“We’ll be okay,” Bruce whispers back. He doesn’t believe his words, and Dick doesn’t either. “We’ll be okay.”

Dick’s voice goes high and reedy. “This can’t be happening.”

“I’m sorry, Dick. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck. Fuck. ”

Bruce kisses the side of his head. Dick sobs once more, then steps back and reels his despair back inside him with one practiced grimace. “Alright,” he says darkly, wiping at his eyes. “Tim and the girls are already upstairs. Hopefully Damian’s there too.” 

“Go be with them,” Bruce says. “I’ll stay with Jason.” 

Dick gives him a nod, spares one last painful glance at the door of the medical bay, and then turns on his heel and darts upstairs. The room feels colder once he’s gone. Bruce almost regrets letting him leave. 

Slowly, he rises to his feet. Without the blindness of terror and adrenaline, there’s nothing stopping him from feeling the pain of his recent injuries. He practically limps into the med bay on one leg and collapses into the chair at Jason’s bedside. Alfred is there too, eyes closed, leaned against the wall with a hand against his temple. 

“Thank you,” Bruce croaks, watching him. He can’t look at Jason. Not yet. “Extend my thanks to Leslie too.” 

“I have her on speed dial,” Alfred replies. “She’ll be here in five minutes if anything happens.” 

Bruce nods. With a long sigh, Alfred straightens. “I’m going to go make a mug of something warm. Would you like one?” 

“No thank you.” If Bruce eats or drinks anything, he’s convinced he’s going to throw it back up. “Take your time. I’ll be here with Jason.” 

Alfred leaves without another word; conversation is beyond all of them at this point. Alone, Bruce hears nothing but the beeping of machinery and the steady, stilted wheeze of Jason’s breathing. He hadn’t needed to be intubated, thankfully. Any more wires sticking in and out of his child and Bruce might have had an aneurysm. 

My child. He’s not Bruce’s child anymore, though. He’s a man grown, and whether he considers Bruce his father at all seems to change by the day. Things between them are peaceful, but they are not intimate. Jason takes care of himself and makes his own way and spares a helping hand to his brothers and sisters if they need it. Bruce has forced himself to accept that he no longer has a place in most of Jason’s life, even if the rest of his family do. Bruce would rather it this way than Jason isolating himself entirely. It’s for the best. 

“Oh, Jason.” Bruce makes himself look at him. He looks so young laying there, ghastly white and limp. His throat goes thick. “Oh, Jason —“ 

He grabs Jason’s hand without thinking and pulls it to his lips to staunch the flow of whatever awful noise is clawing up his throat. Jason’s hand is cold, waxy. Bruce kisses it nevertheless. “You’re going to be alright, lad. I promise. I promise.” 

Jason would sneer at him if he were awake. Maybe he’d roll his eyes, or sigh dramatically, or stalk off entirely. He doesn’t often give Bruce the chance to comfort him. Bruce rubs Jason’s hand with his thumb. He knows he’s taking advantage of Jason’s unconsciousness for his own selfish wants. If he were a better man, he’d sit vigil until Jason was stable and be gone by the time he woke up. He’d treat Jason like the independent adult he so desperately wants to be and not give him more fodder to hate Bruce when he wakes up. 

Bruce’s eyes travel down to Jason’s blankets. His smooth, airy hospital sheets. They’re papery, awful things, and Bruce feels such a sudden rush of hatred for them that it has him stumbling to one of the spare linen closets and tearing out one of the comfier knits Alfred keeps in there. He limps back over to Jason and drapes it over him as best he can without catching any of the wires and tubes. Jason’s shirtless, and the cave is chilly. He looks cold.

In Bruce’s exhausted, frazzled mind, there is no possible thing in that moment that could be worse than his child going cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, gently lifting Jason’s feet one by one to tuck the blanket under them. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

What exactly he’s apologizing for he isn’t sure, but he’s got a laundry list of sins long enough to warrant one every day for the rest of his life. He tucks in Jason’s motionless legs, bypasses the bandaged part of his torso entirely, then allows himself to cup Jason’s head in his hand while he tucks the blanket in around Jason’s neck and shoulders. If he doesn’t look too closely, and doesn’t think so hard, he could almost convince himself that Jason’s only asleep. Jason, fast asleep in his room, tucked up in blankets with his family around him — that’d be nice. Maybe, if Bruce is lucky, that’ll be what he dreams of the day he dies.

“There.” He’s reluctant to pull back, but he’s already pushed his luck too far. Jason might forgive him for this in a year or so, if he ever finds out. Best not to tempt his odds any more. “Nice and warm.”

Jason breathes away. Somehow even in sleep, he does not look peaceful. Some invisible force always seems to be pulling his features downwards. Perhaps, on some unconscious level, he knows Bruce has overstayed his welcome. Perhaps he senses the unwanted interloper in his space, always treading too close to the vulnerable underbelly Bruce no longer has the privilege of seeing.

Bruce bends down and kisses Jason’s forehead. He’s a weak, sorry man, and maybe one day he’ll learn what's good for him. But in this moment, he’s nothing more than a grieving father, and if one kiss to his unconscious son’s head is enough to damn him, then he’ll take his suffering gladly. Anything to breathe in Jason’s achingly familiar scent and pretend he’s still worth his boy’s love.

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce turns, stumbling over his own feet. Alfred’s standing in the doorway with a steaming mug in his hands. Suddenly bashful, Bruce averts his eyes. There’s silence between them. Maybe Alfred is debating on whether or not to scold Bruce for the sin of giving his dying child a kiss. 

“I suggest you go and get some rest,” Alfred says gently. “You will not sleep down here with him.”

“I need to stay,” Bruce forces out, and the watery tremble in his voice both surprises and horrifies him. “If he goes downhill, I need to be here.”

“ I am here,” Alfred says sternly. “And I think I have had more sleep than the rest of you combined. You will be the first to know if something happens.”

Alfred might as well be asking him to tear out his own heart with a knife, but he listens nonetheless. A suggestion from Alfred is only a suggestion for courtesy – if he asks Bruce to do something, he does it. No questions asked.

The walk upstairs takes a hundred years, or so it feels. He makes a stop by Dick’s room and pushes the door open with a knuckle. It’s dark and quiet within, but the different forms of his children within are still visible. Dick’s on his bed, face up, with Tim curled up on top of him because sometimes the only thing that lulls that boy to sleep is the sound of a heartbeat. Cass is asleep next to him, wrapped around Duke’s legs. There’s a lump of blankets and pillows on the floor that’s likely to be Stephanie.

Bruce is so caught up in watching them that it startles him when Dick turns his head and notices him. Abruptly Dick sits up, still holding Tim to his chest, and the terror that washes over his son’s face breaks Bruce’s heart all over again. “Jason’s alright,” He says quickly, hoping to salvage some of the quiet peace he’s just set ablaze.”I… I was just checking on you.”

A strangled, shuddering sigh leaves Dick all at once. “Okay,” he says tightly, laying himself back down on a trembling arm. “Shit, Bruce. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” Bruce says, just as Tim raises his head and murmurs a quiet, “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Dick whispers back, pushing his little brother’s head back down. “It’s just Bruce doing some recon.”

Bruce surveys the room again. “Where’s Damian?”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “He’s not with you?”

“No. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“He wasn’t in his room or closet. I thought he’d made his way back down to the Cave to be with you.” Dick starts to sit up again. “Shit. I’ll go and find him. He shouldn’t be–”

Bruce stops him with a curt wave. “Please, rest. You’ve got enough to look after here.”

Dick looks like he’d like to argue, but exhaustion wins out and he closes his eyes. “Okay. Bring him here if he needs me, okay?” 

Bruce smiles gently. “I will.” 

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take him long to find Damian at all. After a quick check of Damian’s room, Bruce walks into his bedroom and finds his youngest son sitting on the edge of his bed, motionless, holding Jason’s helmet in his hands. He hasn’t even gotten out of his Robin uniform.

“Damian,” he says.

“Why?”

Damian’s voice is a quiet hiss. Bruce sets his jaw. “Damian, it’s time for bed.”

“Why?” Damian repeats. “Why did that fool–”

“ Damian.” Bruce cuts him off. 

“I want to know !” Damian’s voice rises abruptly to a shriek. “Why, father? Why ? Why did he do that?”

“He wanted to save you. That man would have killed you if–”

“And now he’s gotten himself killed!” Damian swings the helmet into the mirror over Bruce’s vanity and watches as it shatters in a blast of broken glass.  “The goddamn blundering fool allowed himself to be skewered and now he’s downstairs dying and–” he curls in on himself, fisting his hands in front of his face. Bruce reaches for him but he flinches away. 

“Damian. Listen to me.” Bruce goes to kneel on one knee, but the slash in his calf quickly voices its dissatisfaction. Instead, he stumbles to his bedside and allows himself to sit down. Damian remains stuck in place like a weeping angel, hiding his face, surrounded by broken glass. “I can’t give you an answer right now. Jason did what he did because he loves you, and he didn’t want you to be in danger. That’s all I know.”

“He’s stupid,” Damian whispers. “I am the one who put myself in danger. I should have been the one to reap the consequences.”

“That’s not how that works around here.” Bruce reaches out for him, for his baby, for the only child of his that shares his sorrow-filled DNA. Damian spares him only a glance, then tips sideways and clutches onto one of the posters of Bruce’s bed as though anchoring himself in one place. “Your brothers and sisters will always come to your rescue, just as you would for them.”

“Then they’re all fools!” Damian bellows, voice shattering. “Every single one of them! They’re all –” He gasps brokenly– “They’re all– stupid fucking fools –”

It’s a testament to Damian’s utter devastation that he doesn’t struggle when Bruce crosses the bed and sweeps him into his arms. Bruce cups the back of his head and holds him close, letting his legs hang limply in mid-air. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “It’s alright.”

“I’ll hate him if he dies.” Damian clings to his neck, shuddering. “I’ll never forgive him for this.”

“Alfred and Leslie have done all they can. It’s just a matter of waiting.”

“It should be me down there. I was the one who engaged with that man. He was aiming for me.”

Bruce swallows thickly. Damian wouldn’t have even made it home if he’d been the one injured; Jason is twice his size and over a decade older and the blow might still kill him. It seems that thinking in absolutes is yet another thing Damian inherited from his father’s side. “I’m happy you’re safe. If nothing else, I am happy that you are safe. I’m sure Jason would be too.”

Damian doesn’t respond to that. Carefully, Bruce carries him out of the broken glass and sets him in the doorway of the bathroom. “Get changed and wash up,” he orders gently. “We both need rest.”

“I can’t.” A tear dribbles down Damian’s cheek. “Father, please, I can’t–”

“You can and you will. There is nothing else to do but wait.”

“I’ve killed my brother, Father. I killed him.”

Bruce catches Damian’s face in both hands, startling a few more tears balancing on his waterline into falling onto his thumbs. “Jason made a decision of his own accord to rescue you. You didn’t force him to do anything. I will not allow you to take any blame for this.”

“How?” Damian whispers. “How is this not my fault?”

Because you’re only a child, Bruce thinks, sinking to his knees despite the pain and engulfing his son in a hug. Because you shouldn’t have been there in the first place. None of you should. Blame travels through them all like an electrical current and always finds its home within Bruce. He regrets his actions some days more than others. Today he regrets. Today he regrets so much. “The one at fault was that man. Jason is not at fault and neither are you. You’re both brave, noble boys and you both need to rest.”

Damian takes a few shaky breaths into Bruce’s ear before slumping into him. “Would I be permitted to find Richard after I’m done? I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. “I’ll take you to the others or you can stay here with me.”

“Are you certain?”

Bruce kisses his temple. He smells like sweat and blood and misery. “Always.”

“Okay.” Damian leans out of his embrace and looks him in the eye, jaw set. “Okay.”

While Damian showers, Bruce busies himself with cleaning the broken glass off the floor and vanity. Jason’s helmet sits on the counter, watching him with empty, judgemental eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says to it. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

It stares back at him silently. The wretched thing reminds him of a skull sometimes – knowing Jason and his propensity to holding it up in his hand while discussing Shakespearan classics with Alfred, he probably did it on purpose. That boy has had a flair for the dramatics since the day Bruce met him.

When the room is clean and the glass pieces are shoved into a nearby trashcan to be dealt with later, Damian shuffles out of the bathroom with damp hair and tired eyes. He looks like his mother with that soft frown of his. Jason always said he saw Talia within him when he was angry, but times like this are when Bruce sees the resemblance. Talia always wore exhaustion with a certain type of nobility. Damian looks like a sad little prince.

Bruce, sitting on the bed, holds his arms out. Damian stares at him for only a moment before flying into his arms. “There we are, chum,” he murmurs, rising to his feet with Damian clinging to his torso. “To Dick’s room?”

“May I please stay in here with you?” Damian asks quickly. 

Bruce blinks, surprised, and remembers his offer from minutes before. “Of course,” he answers, to Damian’s obvious relief. He turns back towards his own bed and pulls back the thick duvet, letting Damian detach himself from Bruce’s chest and fall back against the sheets. Pulling them back over Damian, he runs a hand through his son’s damp strands. “I’m going to wash up. Be right back.”

Damian nods wordlessly. He’s tiny in comparison to the rest of Bruce’s bed, and the image of him curled up in Bruce’s blankets stirs up hazy memories of another grieving, dark-haired child in his bed. One had lost his parents; the other, potentially, a brother. Both looked up at him with teary eyes and believed he could take their pain away.

He showers quickly, and Damian is still wide awake when he walks out of the steam-filled bathroom. He watches trepidatiously as Bruce slides under the covers, but doesn’t hesitate to scooch onto Bruce’s chest when he holds his arms out in invitation. The warm weight of Damian’s cheek against his sternum loosens the knot of agony that’s taken root in Bruce’s ribcage. He crosses his hands over Damian’s back and presses down on him, just a little, just like he used to do with Dick. Slowly, the tension leaks from Damian’s shoulders.

“You’re just like your brothers,” Bruce says before he can stop himself.

All at once, the tension is back. “What do you mean?” Damian asks.

“You cuddle like Dick. And Tim, a little.” He brings a hand up into Damian’s hair. “Tim likes to listen to heartbeats.” 

“Ugh,” Damian scoffs, but he makes no attempt to move. A few moments pass in silence. “How did… how does Todd cuddle?” 

Bruce chuckles, fighting the urge to squirm as the knot within him re-tightens. “Jason wasn’t a big cuddler from the beginning. Not sure how much it’s in his nature.” He pauses. “Unfavorable circumstances notwithstanding.” 

Before his death, Jason had been happy. He had his moments, but Bruce hadn’t seen someone with that much vigor for school and Robin and life in general in a long time. He delighted in reading, in running through the manor simply because the space was his, in doing his part to make the city a better place. Jason loved Gotham just as much as Bruce did. That’s how they bonded. 

After his death, Jason had been. Well.

“Jason didn’t like too many people crowding his space. It made him antsy. But when he was upset, and he did want affection, I always did this.” Bruce takes one of Damian’s hands and brings it up. Tangling their fingers together, he leans his cheek on the back of Damian’s palm, trapping it lightly between his shoulder and the crook of his neck. Damian’s fingers flex curiously. “He liked this. That was my hug.” 

Little warm fingers in the crook of Bruce’s neck. His throat feels tight. Please pull through, Jay. I’ll let you go if you survive this. If that’s what you really want, I’ll let you go. 

Damian is silent. He doesn’t seem tense anymore, but Bruce isn’t naive enough to think he’s feeling better. There is no feeling better tonight. They’ll float together in their shared pain, and that will be enough. 

“Go to sleep now,” Bruce says, free hand traveling downwards. It tucks the blanket in around Damian’s waist, moving upwards the best it can before the angle proves too difficult. He’s at least able to poke the sheets in around Damian’s head by bending his wrist. All in all, it’s a pretty shitty attempt at tucking his child in, but when Bruce looks down, Damian’s eyes are closed. 

“We’re going to be alright,” Bruce whispers down at him. For once, he actually believes his own words. “I love you.” 

He kisses Damian’s forehead. His fingers, now still, sit comfortably against his cheek.

He falls asleep like that, dreaming of Jason.

Jason, of course, survives — as he is wont to do. It solves everything and nothing. 

Due to the nature of his injury, he’s bedbound for several weeks. Though his organs are in miraculously good condition, being impaled made a mess of his abdominal muscles, and Jason can’t so much as sit up without assistance. He’s not too happy about being stuck in the manor, but a steady supply of books and Alfred’s cooking has at least kept his complaints to a minimum. Dick comes home every weekend to visit, Tim’s taken to looking after Jason’s patrol routes and giving him the reports, and Jason spends most of his time hanging out with his sisters or picking petty fights with Damian over his cats liking Jason’s room more. 

Bruce has not spoken one word to him since that night in the Batmobile.

It’s not because Bruce is ignoring him. Bruce is not ignoring him. Bruce is doing what he’s always done with Jason and is giving him his much-needed space. It’s hard enough to keep Jason in one place, let alone in the Manor, and Bruce is not about to mess with their tentative peace by hovering where he isn’t wanted. Jason doesn’t ask for him, and he doesn’t come around. It’s peaceful. 

Until it isn’t.

“You’re mad at me.”

Bruce looks up, tray still in hand. He’d been sent up on Alfred’s request to fetch Jason’s finished dinner – probably, he now realizes, for this exact reason. “I’m not,” he says automatically.

Jason sits in bed, propped up on pillows. He looks wan against the dark maroon covers of the guest room he’s taken as his own, but that’s still a far cry from the ghastly white he’d been in the back of Bruce’s car. Head leaned back against the backboard, he looks down at Bruce through narrowed, heavy eyes. “Don’t lie,” he says. “You are. Admit it.”

“I’m not,” Bruce repeats. “Do you think I am?”

“I know you are. This is the first time you’ve even looked me in the eye in two weeks.”

Wrong, something nasty in Bruce’s brain thinks. I looked you in the eye when you were dying in my arms. 

But saying that would lead to a fight, and Bruce doesn’t think he can handle a fight right now. Not when he’s just gotten the blood out of his backseat and the image of Jason losing blood under strobing streetlights has yet to leave his nightmares. So instead he shrugs and says, “I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry if you think I am.”

Jason scoffs harshly, sending him into a full-body jolt that drags a little wheeze from his battered torso. “Jesus Christ, Bruce. I thought you were done with this bullshit. Do us both a favour and stop lying to me.”

Oh. So it’s a fight now. Great. “I’m not lying to you, Jason,” Bruce says, gritting his jaw. “I’m not angry at you. That’s the truth. Happy?”

Jason looks at him for a moment, almost in disbelief, before an empty smile splits across his face. “Unbelievable,” he murmurs. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“What?” Bruce snaps as Jason starts to chuckle. The sound grates in his ears like metal against concrete. “What? What’s so funny?” 

“You’re not mad at me?” Jason says. 

“No!” Bruce exclaims. 

“So what, you’ve just been ignoring me this whole time because you just don’t fucking like me?” 

The food tray rattles ominously as Bruce slams it down onto the nearby dresser. Jason stares him down, lips curled, eyes glimmering with challenge. “What?” Bruce says. “What have I done wrong now?” 

“I want you to tell me the truth!” Jason shouts. “I want you to tell me that you’re pissed that I nearly died again and that’s why you haven’t fucking looked at me in two weeks–”

“I was giving you space!” Bruce yells back. 

“I didn’t want space!” 

“You always want space!”

“You are such a fucking liar!” Jason’s voice peters off with a harsh gasp. He twists away the best he can, hand pressed to the bandages covering his lower torso. “I cannot f— fucking believe you!”

Bruce swallows. Anger sits hot and heavy on his tongue. “I am not having this discussion with you, Jay. Lay down and stop hurting yourself.” 

“Oh,” Jason laughs, voice dripping with poison. “Trying to play the Daddy Bats card? Maybe it would work a little better if you hadn’t been pretending I didn’t exist for two fucking weeks—“ 

Bruce cuts him off. “I am not ignoring you! You want space, I give you space. You want to live life against my morals, I let you. What else, Jason? What else do you want from me?”

“I want you to show me that you care!” 

Bruce has the sudden and violent urge to drive his head into the wall. “What’s all this been, then? Everything I have done for you — what else has it been but me caring about you?” 

“You’re ignoring me!”

Bruce has the sudden and violent urge to drive Jason’s head into the wall. “The last time I showed up unannounced somewhere, you shot a bullet at my feet. Dick has to tell me to stay out on patrol late just to get you into the Cave to be stitched up when you’ve injured yourself. The only time this family sees a modicum of peace is when I’m as far away from you as possible!”

“You’re still supposed to act like I’m your child!” Jason says. “Show me that you care! Push my buttons a little! That’s what dads do!” 

“Why the hell would I do that? Do you know what that kind of behavior got me the first time?” Bruce says. “It got me a child who moved away to Bludhaven and didn’t talk to me for almost a year—“ 

“It got you a brand new shiny Robin! It got you me!” 

“Yeah, and look at how well that ended!”

A flash of hurt cracks the grinning facade of Jason’s face. “Wow,” he hisses. “Good to know I wasn’t worth it at all, then.” 

Bruce breathes in through his nose. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“No, no, you’re right. You only took a chance on little old me because Dickster took off and left you empty-nested and then you went and got like ten more little birdies after I got blown to bits in that stupid uniform because you never learn your lessons!” Jason raises his hands shakily. “Woop-de-fucking-do! Bruce Wayne, father of the goddamn year!”

“Forgive me for not killing myself alongside you!”

“Fuck you! You are such a fucking asshole!” Jason screams. His sickly face is beet-red, and a tear escapes from one eye and dribbles over his snarling lips. “You never loved me and you’re too much of a coward to even pretend!”

Without another word, Bruce spins around on his heel and stalks out, tray forgotten, slamming the door behind him. Tim, poking curiously out of his bedroom door, slips away and hides when Bruce storms by. 

“Never loved him,” Bruce murmurs to himself incredulously. “Unbelievable. Un -fucking -believable.”

He descends down into the Cave and, when he’s sure no one is around to see, swings his fist into the wall. Then he does it again. And again. And again.

“Bruce?” 

It’s Dick. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking worried. “What was that?” He asks.

If Dick’s the next one to yell at him, Bruce thinks he’ll have a conniption. “Not now, Dick,” he says harshly. “I need to be alone. Go upstairs.” 

Dick purses his lips. “Your hand is bleeding.” 

“I’m aware of that.” 

“C’mon, tell me—“ 

“ Dick.” Bruce takes a long breath. “Please. Go upstairs. Please.” 

He tries not to feel guilty as Dick, still looking unhappy, turns and disappears up the stairs in silence. He looks back at the dent he made in the wall, then down at his bloody hand, and feels all the anger leave his body in one rush. What’s left in its wake is exhaustion, pain, and the familiar ache of hurt feelings.

You’re too much of a coward to even pretend to love me.

Alone, he sits down at his desk and buries his face in his hands. 

He’s not sure what brings him back to Jason’s door hours later, but it’s certainly not the belief that this conversation will go any better than the one before it. Bruce pushes on the door with a bandaged knuckle and lets the door creak open. The room is pitch dark, Jason no more than a lump under his blankets. Somehow, despite his injuries, he’s found a way to twist onto his side and curl into himself. Bruce closes the door behind him and walks to his bedside, slowly, knowing Jason is awake and hears every step. 

“Jason,” he whispers, sitting down on the edge of his bed. 

“Go away.” 

Bruce knows better now. “No.” 

“You got what you wanted. I’m telling the truth. Go the fuck away.” 

Jason’s voice is thin and hoarse. It can’t be comfortable, laying how he is, but Jason is more than willing to put himself in pain to prove a point.

“I rarely get what I want in life,” Bruce says, swinging both his legs up onto the bed after him. “I’m staying.” 

Jason kicks him hard, right in his bad leg. “I don’t want you anywhere near me. Get out of my bed.” 

“Nope.” 

“I hate you.”

“This is me pushing your buttons.” 

“I’m going to scream for Alfred.” 

“Do it, then.” 

Jason, of course, does not. He makes a stifled little noise into his pillow and kicks again at Bruce’s leg. “Stop that,” Bruce says tensely. He’s not in the mood for any more pain tonight. 

Surprisingly, Jason does. He shuffles onto his back but keeps his face turned away, arms crossed over his chest. “Come to scream at me some more?” He asks petulantly.

“You were the one doing most of the screaming,” Bruce says. 

“Shut up,” Jason snaps, and then neither of them say anything for a good long while.

Jason’s fingers tense when Bruce’s wrap around them, but he doesn’t yank them away when Bruce lifts their intertwined hands and cradles them in the crook of his shoulder. He presses his cheek to the back of Jason’s palm and closes his eyes, silently grateful that it’s so warm against him. No amount of hot water will ever make him forget the feeling of cold, waxy skin.

Jason takes in a long, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, okay?” He says. “I was scared and in pain and I felt like you didn’t even care.” 

“I was trying,” Bruce murmurs. He’s not used to holding such a big hand in his own; Jason’s hands had been only just slightly larger than Damian’s when he’d been small. Slight, lithe little Jason — Bruce used to wonder if he’d ever get to be the same height as Dick, let alone taller than him. No wonder it sometimes feels like he’s looking at a stranger. “I really was just trying to do the right thing.” 

Jason scoffs. It’s a watery sound. “Of course you were.”

“All I have ever done is love you. In every way I know how, I loved you. I loved you even when it was eating me alive.” Bruce swallows. “Even when it was killing me.” 

Jason is silent. Bruce continues. “You knew that. You know that.” 

“I do,” Jason whispers. “I just— I wanted to feel it.” 

“You wanted to be angry.” 

Jason shifts in what might be a shrug. “That too. I still am angry. I might always be.” 

He sounds so tired, and his hand presses closer to Bruce as though seeking warmth. Bruce sets his free hand on Jason’s wrist and rubs long, slow circles on the bare skin. “Batman doesn’t kill,” he murmurs. 

“I know,” Jason snaps quietly. “Stop saying it. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Okay.” Bruce presses a kiss to Jason’s palm. “You should get some sleep.” 

Jason groans. “I have had so much sleep.”

“You need more. You’re still healing.”

“Damn straight I am. The next time the demon brat tries to become a shish kabob, I’m letting him. Feels like someone replaced my abs with wood.”

Bruce chuckles. “I’m sure Damian would rather die than let himself be rescued by you again.” 

Jason laughs in return, but the sound drifts off. His fingers move against Bruce’s cheek. “Woke up to him doing… this.” He wiggles his fingers some more. “Out of nowhere. Just woke up one morning and the kid’s sitting on my bed with a big scowl, squeezing my whole arm like a little boa constrictor.” 

“He felt guilty,” Bruce replies. 

“Why? Any one of us would have saved him. He would have tried to save me if I’d been the one in trouble.” 

“That’s what I told him.” Bruce lets Jason’s palm slip from his shoulder but keeps it held tight between both hands. “Thank you, Jay. For saving your brother.” 

“All in a day’s work,” Jason mutters softly. “You’d all be dead without me.” 

“And then Alfred would be sad.” 

“Which is unacceptable.” 

“That it is.” Bruce swings his leg off Jason’s bed and stands, laying Jason’s palm down gently against the blankets. “Get some sleep. I’ll come eat my breakfast with you tomorrow morning.” 

“Oh, please,” Jason says with a light laugh. “Tim likes to use breakfast time to give me all the gossip about the Titans and if I hear about Kon’s daddy issues one more time, I think I’ll kill us both.” 

Bruce scoffs. “Do I need to give Clark a call?”

“Ask Tim yourself tomorrow morning!”

“Alright, I will.” Bruce’s hands move before he realizes that habit has taken over and he’s halfway up Jason’s legs when he recognizes what he’s doing. He looks up at Jason, almost bashfully, but Jason’s expression is soft and his eyes have fallen closed. In rest, he looks his age. That fact has finally stopped tearing at Bruce’s heart. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he promises gently, tucking the rest of Jason’s legs under the thick quilted duvet. He still avoids a large part of his abdomen, but Jason lets him tuck in his neck and shoulders without so much as a scowl. “Maybe your other brothers will want to join us for breakfast too. Maybe I’ll get those girls in here as well.” 

“Only the girls,” Jason says, slurring his words with sleep. Bruce cups his face in both hands and kisses his forehead. “The rest of you… not allowed.” 

“I’ll pass the message on. Goodnight, Jason. I love you.” 

“Night night, old man,” Jason says. “Love you too.”