Writing blog • No idea what is canon, don't know her • Okayest father defender • latinoamericana • ESOL • Rebobinarte on AO3 {https://ko-fi.com/lacote}
Lazurus Pit this, Superboy-Prime's reality punch that, yeah Jason Todd was actually resurrected because Gotham herself felt Bruce Wayne's grief and maternal yearning for his baby and jumpstarted that kid's heart.
Dick studies him. Swallows his pride. He's not a teen anymore, yelling should not be an option. He forces his eyes close, and reopens them. Slowly.
"I need you to rephrase that" He tries to contain the hurt. The anger. The betrayal.
"... What?"
"I need you to hear what you just said. Because, right now, you're invalidating all my efforts" Deep breathes. Clarity. Put your words out. Deep breathes. "I'm not mediocre, Bruce"
"I never said that"
"No. I know you haven't." Deep breathes. In. Out. "You're making me feel like it, thought" In. Out.
"I don't think you're mediocre"
"No." Measure your tone. Think your wording. "You're just saying that where I am standing is mediocre." You love him. Don't hurt him. "You think I can do better" Don't hurt him. "But what if I don't want to do better?"
Bruce looks at him. Dick sees the confusion behind his stare.
"I-"
"What if I'm fine right where I am?"
"Son-"
"Ask me, Bruce. Talk to me, please: Dick, are you comfortable where you are?"
"Dick..."
"Are you happy, son? Are you proud?" He breathes deep. Retains the air. Absorbs the silence. He is listening. "Ask me, dad."
Bruce breathes in, eyes shining wet with something unreadable, and straightens his shoulders.
"Are you happy, son?"
Dick smiles. "I am." He breathes, shakily. "I am, dad"
A pair of arms drag him into a hug, soft kisses and apologies against his skull.
"I don't want to be better" he whispers "Not right now, at least. Can I enjoy this moment?" He tries not to cry. He fails, and does so against Bruce's shoulder. "I'm proud of where I got, dad"
Bruce nods.
"You're my dad. You'll always want the best for me. I got it" he sighs. "I got it" He does. He understands.
But understanding doesn't take the hurt or the shame, nor the pressure of living under the shadow of a legend.
"I am so proud of you."
"I know."
"You know." Comes more as a question. His forehead is warm under the kiss.
"... I think I do." He contemplates. "Sometimes I do"
Bruce doesn't apologize again. But Dick hears it behind the sad inhale and the way those shoulders tremble.
And maybe he'll come to believe those words at some point. Maybe. Hopefully.
Bruce always had a beautiful voice. Charming when he was Brucie, deep when he was batman. But, it was most angelic when he sang. That smooth rumble as words slipped his lips, curved perfectly around each word and vowel.
Jason remembers sneaking through the hallway to get a late night snack and pausing when he heard Bruce singing from his room 2 doors down. Jason sat where he was, head leaned against the wall, letting that voice take him over. Bruce was singing "Like A Prayer" by Madonna, and clearly enjoying himself. That was the first of many nights Jason slept somewhere that wasn't his bed.
Now grown, Jason has taken to smoking. He's on a rooftop, standing next to Bruce. Bruce who had been kidnapped and was now rescued. They both watches as GCPD officers saw the tied up culprits and looked for their hostage. A cigarette rests between Jason's lips.
He catches Bruce eyeing it and sighs. Plucking it away, he looks at Bruce. "Gonna give me shit for smoking a cig? Save your breath, I'm not quitting."
Bruce purses his lips, and then smiles softly. "Just wondering if you got more."
"Who's asking?"
"Me."
Jason surpresses his surprise. Instead, he stares at Bruce, trying to connect some dots. "You... Smoke?"
Bruce chuckles. "Like you didn't know. There's an ashtray in my study."
There is? Since when? Was it there when he was younger? How had he not noticed?
"Hasn't anyone told you smoking's bad for your voice?"
He gets look in return. "Hypocrisy isn't a good look on you, Jay."
But then.
Then.
Bruce's voice cracks around his nickname. A soft, almost indiscernible break in his speech, but it's there. An obvious tell.
Jason feels a burn in his throat that isn't from the smoke. Memories of falling asleep in a hallway, nodding off to sleep with the sound of angels.
He shoves his pack into his pocket, taking a silent vow to throw them away later. "Why destroy your throat when you can destroy your wallet?" Jason smirks, grabbing his jacket and passing it to Bruce. "Let's go get burgers. I promise to burn a hole in your black hole of a debit card."
Bruce pushes off the railing. "You're welcome to try but few have succeeded." They head towards the stairs going down. When they reach Jason's motorcycle, Jason's stops Bruce.
"I don't ask you for much."
Bruce reads between the lines and hsi eyebrows scrunch. "something wrong?"
"No, just-" Jason looks away. "Sing for me. Tonight."
Bruce's eyes widen, like he didn't know how ethereal his voice was. But he doesn't say anything, just climbs on behind Jason. It's only when they reach the Manor that Bruce takes off his helmet with a smile. "Got any song in mind?"
He hates the connotation of even having one, and genuinely gets upset when asked.
"I love my children differently, but equally," is what he says.
Hal, however, has become very vocal of having a favorite child.
And he is very vocal about not telling who it is.
Which seems deliberate, knowing this man, in an attempt to dismantle the Wayne dynasty and tear the batfamily from the inside.
After all, the Bats have a competitive streak.
.
.
.
And so that the manor doesn't get nuked by this competition, the Wayne Family Arbitration Court (yes Bruce, it's a real thing) was put into session in one of the house's many parlors.
"It's gotta be me," Duke puffed his chest out and grinned, standing before his menagerie of siblings.
"Duke," Jason sighed, "We're talking about Hal's favorite kid, not best cockblocker."
To that, Duke threw his shoe at Jason, who caught it, only to throw it at Dick's unsuspecting self.
"HEY!"
"If anything, I would think Hal hates you the most," Damian supplied dryly.
"What are you even on, man!?" Duke snapped, "Reminding you all, I'm even the reason they began hanging out more often again, so much that they started dating AND got married! I fucking parent trapped them!"
"And we thank you for your service," Cass smiled, draping herself gracefully on the couch like a cat who got the nip, "But we all know I am the favorite."
"WHAT."
"Cassandra, I thought you were imaginative, not delusional," Damian snorted, earning him a flick of her fingers.
"Um, Hal likes me because I'm never mean to Dad and I look like Dad sometimes," Cass smirked, "And mind you, I was the first of us that he publicly referred to as one of his children."
"If that's the standard, then I should be the favorite," Damian smiled sweetly, "After all, he prioritized getting custody of me when he and Father married, and faced the entire League of Assassins willingly to earn that right. It is a trust testament to his favor."
"Big deal," Jason rolled his eyes, "I'm the kid he wanted to bring back to life, and the kid that made him want to try again with Dad."
"Okay bitch?" Tim laughed mockingly, snapping his laptop shut, "I'm the last kid he raised with Bruce, and he spent a lot more time with me than he did with you or Dick. Oh, and guess who he asked permission from when he married Dad? ME! Suck it, zombie cock."
Jason grimaced, teeth grinding as he tried to find his words.
He turned to Dick, snapping at his brother's ear.
"Oi, Dick, you just gonna let Timbitch do us like this?"
Dick rolled his eyes and peered up from his phone to swat his hand away, "What's the point? I already know I'm not Hal's favorite."
Then he paused.
And like the performer that he is, he stuck his tongue out, "But I am Bruce's number one!"
Then he dodged everyone's miscellaneous items.
"FUCK YOU!"
"KILL YOURSELF, RICHARD!"
"BOO! LOSER!"
"EXPLODE!"
"OH, GO FUCK YOURSELF, DICK!"
.
.
.
.
.
Bruce turned off the manor comms and sighed, tossing it into some forgotten corner of the bed.
Even without the mics and cameras, he can hear his children enacting bloody murder on each other from downstairs.
He looked down at the perpetrator of the recent madness that took over the family for the last month.
Hal seemed content where he laid, blissfully ignorant at the war crimes he's enabled by posing such a bizarre hypothetical unto their passionately competitive children.
Hal was laying between Bruce's legs on the bed, face pressed against his slightly distended belly, a sleepy, content smile on his charming features.
"Harold."
"Hmm?"
"You're cruel."
"Am I?"
Bruce sighed exasperatedly, tugging at Hal's hair for a moment of admonishment.
Hal only laughed, and raised his head to press kisses on Bruce's stomach.
"How's my favorite child?" Hal asked.
"Growing, definitely attuned to the fact that their father is a menace," Bruce chuckled, "And you can't say you have a favorite and mean it."
Hal hummed, "And I really don't mean it, they know that. I love all of our kids."
Not like Martin Jordan, who loved Jack, likes Jim, and treated Hal like an afterthought.
Bruce rolled his eyes, "And yet, you torture them so."
Hal laughed, crawling upwards this time to pepper his husband with kisses.
"If it makes you feel any better," he grinned, smiling against Bruce's lips while thumbing over the inconspicuous bump along his belly, "I plan to do this again when we give this little one more siblings."
(SCENE: Jason Todd as Red Hood, trying to teach his goons how to break the law without getting caught)
— — —
“—and if you’re going to run from a traffic stop, do it before you give them your license,” Jason finished, crossing his arms. “Questions?”
A man in the front row of mismatched folding chairs raised his hand. “Even if it’s fake?”
“Yes, even if it’s fake.” Jason took a breath before continuing. “It’s still your face, height, and weight, right?
Slowly but surely, the group began to nod.
“Mr. Hood?” A skinny twig of an 18 year-old raised a hand.
“Yeah?”
“My buddy told me that if they arrest you, and they don’t read your, uh,” the kid stumbled looking nervous. “Your, uh, Melinda rights, they have to let you go.”
Jason sighed into his helmet. There were times when he appreciated Bruce’s breathing tech. The sigh had been filtered and dispersed just after it had finished.
In the intervening moment, the group began to lean forward in their folding chairs, attempting to parse the silence.
Jason lifted one finger.
“They’re Miranda rights.”
Second finger.
“And no, they don’t let have to let you go. Best case scenario, they’ll have to throw out anything incriminating you said. That’s it.”
A plumber-for-hire perked up in the last row, opening his mouth.
“Shit you said during questioning,” Jason clarified quickly.
“Wait. You’re not supposed to talk during an arrest?”
Jason closed his eyes. Behind his helmet, they couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see them. It was beautiful, just for a moment.
Someone scoffed.
“What are you, a fucking snitch?”
“Devon,” Jason said, recognizing the voice, “Chill the fuck out. Brady, what the fuck are you saying when you get arrested?”
Brady was trembling in his seat.
“That I’m gonna f-fuck them up. And t-their families.,” he stuttered. “And I might even s-steal their dog so their k-kids hate them f-forever.”
“See?” Jason waved at Devon. “Terroristic threats. Not snitching.”
Nobody laughed. Jason could sense the incoming questions like they were bullets curving toward his head.
“Terroristic threats?”
“Okay,” Jason said. “So remember when we talked about the different definitions of assault?”
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