MI MANOR ES TU MANOR
pairing: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Bruce and the reader are similar in age (Bruce is 43 in the present, the reader is 40, so like a 3 year age gap. The fic jumps between different ages, starting in their early twenties)
synopsis: exploring the Wayne Manor through your relationship with Bruce.
warnings: long, descriptions of sex (and other sexual intercourse), death, maybe (definitely) inaccurate Tim, parental neglect (not Bruce or reader), learning disabilities, Puerto Rican Jason, Bruce and the reader take in strays, swearing, reader doesn't know how to play chess because I don't know how to play chess, reader is sober, IB (warning for those who took it in high school RIP), abortions, misogyny
word count: 7k
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The first time you visit the Wayne Manor is on your fifth date.
For Bruce, it’s a sigh of relief. Four whole dates where he had to clear out restaurants, enter the both of you through the back door, have the staff sign NDAs, and deal with the press speculating why he’s done all of this. He understood your wariness towards him and his lifestyle. He doesn’t ever need to think about money, and power goes hand in hand with the Wayne name. You–just like any average person or even millionaire–are vulnerable to people in his position. So, he respected your boundaries.
But now you’re here.
And your jaw has dropped.
He can tell. You’re trying not to stare but as his Bentley winds down the driveway, revealing more and more of the three storey manor, you can’t look away. It is impressive, he will admit. An end of the 19th century Manor. From here, you can see the three wings. A central one where two others flank it on a diagonal, facing the back garden. You drive past the surrounding forest and ancient trees, finally entering the driveway the size of a football field.
“Wow.” Is all you say, blinking and trying not to look too shocked. It doesn't work. The corner of his lips turns up.
“It’s a lot,” he agrees, easing the car into the stone arch of the carport.
“It’s the size of a small country.”
“You’re joking but the property is about the same width as Monaco.” He chuckles and unbuckles his seatbelt. Swiftly, he shoots out of his seat and rounds the car to your side. His shoes crunch rapidly onto the stone pebbles. A trait of yours that Bruce had quickly learnt, you’re independent. You didn’t need him to open the door or pull out a chair for you when you were perfectly capable. You'd gently move his hand away or thank him before reminding him that you could do it. He'd just smile and repeat what he always says: he wants to, it makes him happy to treat you. Proven by the slight satisfaction in his chest when he manages to swing the car door open. With a couple seconds to spare, he even holds a hand out for you.
“I should surprise you more often.” Bruce murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple as you straighten up. With a solid hand on your back, he leads you up the stone stairs in front of the grand door. They swing open without a sound.
You don't have a chance to take in the view of the foyer and grand hall because a man with greying hair steps to the side. His left hand is on the door handle, the other opened like a practised general.
"Hello, Master Bruce." The man nods politely, a polished English accent filling the quiet. "Shall I take you and your guest's coats?"
With nothing out of the normal for the billionaire, Bruce hands him his coat. You don't even notice that you haven't moved, still stuck on the fact that Wayne Manor is well...a manor, and that Bruce Wayne has a butler that greets him at the door and takes his coat. Somehow, Bruce has moved behind you, his hand still on your back but climbing up in a grounding rub. With a gentleness that's slowly starting to coax you out of your reverie, Bruce's fingers brush across your shoulders and slide the soft wool of yours off of you. He hands your coat the butler with a 'thank you'.
"Thank you," you add in, almost forgetting your manners.
"You're welcome." His butler just nods again before disappearing behind one of the antique wooden doors.
With just you and Bruce, you finally look up. Past the waxed herringbone. Past the intricate iron and wood balustrade. Past the neat stair runner. Past the vase of hollyhocks set on a table in the centre of the foyer. Because as your eye travels up and up, and you through the space, you finally take in the scale of the place. This is just the foyer and yet it's bigger than your entire kitchen, dining, and living room combined. Stretching up and beyond it, you can make out the upper hallway whose walls are covered in oil portraits and priceless sculptures. Back on the ground floor, behind an arcade (an arcade is a series of archways usually used to delimit a space), chandeliers drop from the ceiling and light up the massive ballroom. There's a hallway that stretches out to your left. Another to your right. More rooms that are probably even bigger than this one. And, if you squint, you can see a vast stretch of green that seems to blend into the shore and trees.
Finally, your eyes land on Bruce again, and you can only wonder how anyone could call a place this vast and empty his home.
—
The best way to experience Bruce's bedroom is in his bed.
The only downside is that you're pretty sure he's asleep and you need to pee. With a resigned sigh, you slowly peel yourself away from him. His hand, which had been resting on your stomach while you both slept on your backs, is gently placed back down onto the mattress. So far, so good. You carry on your delicate quiet by climbing off of the bed. Not a single creak.
Until your foot catches the ottoman.
"Shi-ow!" You keep your voice down, your whispered yell dulling down into a harsh hiss.
Hobbling on one and a half feet now, you make it another metre before your hip bumps into a side table. A grunt of pain squeezes through your lips. You carry on, your arms out in front of you as you find a wall. In the pitch black, you're mentally cursing Bruce's blackout curtains. Your palms brush up against the fabric wallpaper before finding the doorframe then the knob. With a twist, you push it open and shut it quietly behind you. Turning the light on, the walk in closet blinks to life.
Well, you're the one blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.
In more rushed steps, you cross the room and shut the bathroom door behind you with a soft 'click'. Cool marble and carved wood greet you but you don't really care because you're beelining for the toilet.
Sweet, sweet porcelain.
Once your business is concluded, you wash your hands and splash your face with some water. You also secretly thank Bruce for being responsible and carrying you to the bathroom after your late-night activities to pee and brush your teeth, because now you have a toothbrush and can get rid of any morning breath. The soft shhh-shhh-shhh of the bristles against your teeth are the only sound this early. Or late. You haven't checked the time. Bruce must really be knocked out then.
All clean and bladder empty, you turn off all of the lights you cross paths with as you make your way back into the bedroom.
Just a silhouette in the shadows, Bruce is still flat on his back. With a little more grace than before, you find your way back onto the bed. And in Bruce's arms. He's rolled over, his biceps curled around you in a sturdy cuddle. Warmth emits off of him instantly, his body having heated up fast under the thousand thread count duvet.
"Good morning," he mutters and the sound travels south.
Good morning to you too, Mr. Wayne.
His voice is rich and gravelly, like a dark coffee or the rumble of a motor. Bruce's morning voice is sexy. Of course it is. He's Bruce Wayne. That combined with the lingering scent of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne, means that the memories of last night come crashing down on you. The deliberately slow peeling away of your clothes. His mouth on your pussy, eating you out just until your back arches before pulling away. His hands rubbing your thighs with a smug smile. His deep, stern voice asking telling you to go stand in front of the mirror. The heat that lingers on your skin as his touch maps out every part of you in front of the reflective glass. His weight then settling on top of you, caging you in-between the hard lines of his chest and the delicate pillow tucked under your hips. The stronger wafts of his cologne bringing you closer to the peak as he slings your legs over his shoulders and bends down to mark your collarbones.
With a small rustle, you turn your head towards him.
Fuck, he's back to sleep.
You decide that you don't want to end up staring at the ceiling for the next hour or however many more. Maybe you could get your phone? The one that's in your purse all the way downstairs in the library where he tried to teach you the basics of chess before deciding that sex was a much sexier way to end date night. So, your phone is a no-go. Maybe your imagination could distract you? Possible but considering your two options are replaying last night's events or worrying about the proper etiquette for the current situation, it doesn't sound promising. Should you wake him up? Should you just hide in the bathroom and put on your clothes from yesterday? Leave with a note? A text? A message from Alfred? Head downstairs? In his own house? Without him? Would it be rude to ask for breakfast?
"You're not breathing like you're asleep." You jump out of your skin at Bruce's voice rumbling against you.
"'Cause I'm not."
"Why?"
"Because I'm awake."
"I guessed that," he lightly pats your hip before rubbing the spot there. "Why aren't you going back to sleep?"
"Can't. Too awake."
"I didn't tire you out enough last night?" He chuckles, his voice getting closer as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"Shut up."
"I heard you bump into the wall."
Great. The morning after with billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne is less romantic and steamy than you would have hoped for. Good job at setting the mood.
"Did you brush your teeth?" The mattress sighs as Bruce leans up on an elbow, slowly blinking down at you. You nod, caught.
"Hm." He just nods in return. "I'll message Alfred to get started on breakfast."
Then, like last night had no effect on him whatsoever, he stands up on steady feet and opens up the curtains. Gotham's early morning sun bathes him in a soft light, bringing out the mussed up black mess of hair on his head and the contours of his abs. With a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, Bruce sits by you again, brushing the sleep out of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone carefully and he hums. Leaning into his touch, the two of you start a morning routine full of gentle caresses and mundane habits.
—
Arguments are few and between with you and Bruce.
It helps that you're both so similar. Fiercely independent. Blunt and honest. Reflective and pensive. The two of you don't argue. You debate. Points are made, pauses are taken to fully absorb the other's perspective, and a conclusion is reached. It's organised and then moved past. You've each said what you've had to say. You agree and disagree on certain points. There's a mutual respect and understanding that allows for the both of you to come out as equals at the end.
But not last night.
Maybe it's because you were both at a wit's end. You had a long week juggling work, paparazzi, your personal life, and a wedding planner who can't stop sending you emails. Maybe because you're a woman marrying Bruce Wayne so they assumed that you'd be more eager to pay ridiculous sums for flowers and napkins on your fiancé's dime. Less level-headed. More willing to splurge after noticing the massive rock on your left hand. The paparazzi seem to think so too because you swear this one man had been following you since Tuesday when you stopped by a bakery after work. It made headlines in some trashy magazine 'Future Mrs. Wayne stopping by Sugar & Sprinkles for cake tasting. What flavour will the couple's cake be?'. Every little move you made was now an assumption ready for any looking eye to twist now that you're engaged to a Wayne.
Bruce is tired too. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been doing the mental math on expanding his conglomerate to other parts of the world, balancing the wants of global politics and the average consumer, and reading report after report on company performance. Add Batman on top of that and he's nearly dead on his feet. The Penguin has something planned but with a lack of proper rest, he can't fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. This other superhero, Superman, has just found out of his existence and won't leave him alone. It's the third time this month the meta-human from Metropolis has approached him with a friendly smile and his cape billowing in the wind like a bright red target. While the paparazzi have stopped bothering him years ago thanks to his lack of response as well as his legal team, his PR team keep on reminding him of the expectations of Bruce Wayne now that he's engaged. Happily engaged, but the extra people in what's supposed to be your private relationship is starting to get a bit grating.
Which is what the two of you ended up arguing about.
Now, the day after the fight. The Manor's hallways seem to stretch even further. Quiet, lined with artwork that makes the air stale. The remnants of the prior tension echo on the wood panelling. You had just glared at him, exaggerating that the silence that stretched down the East Wing of the Manor. He stared back at you, unmoving. You knew it's wasn't going to end well. He knew it too. But both proud and stubborn, the two of you didn't have it in you last night to compromise. You both wanted to win. You both needed a win. Something to pick you up at the end of the long, frustrating week you've had.
And neither of you are fully in the wrong. You know that you and Bruce need to slow down on the wedding planning. The both of you need it. You need a breather between the media and the stupid wedding planner, before you start resenting this wedding planning or even Bruce. Bruce needs the break too, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. His mental load is at its extreme and he can't take any more on. But he has a point with leaving the wedding planner sort through a few things and come back to you two later. They're being hired by Bruce Wayne for crying out loud. That doesn't mean bothering his future wife. It means making the whole wedding thing as seamless as possible.
But instead it ended in you taking one of the cars to drive back to yours in downtown Gotham while he retreated to the cave.
Dick doesn't like the quiet of the Manor. It's why he's been giving Bruce the cold shoulder all morning. He hates the stillness in the air. How life seems to stop and freeze in the presence of the Wayne ancestral halls. It's nothing like the circus. Nothing ever stayed immobile for too long. Tents were put up and brought down at sunrise and sunset. Animals and acrobats never stopped moving. Crowds roared and vendors had their own cacophonies of sounds. All the Manor had were its inhabitants. Alfred, although the butler seems to be incapable of making any involuntary sounds. No matter how hard Dick tries to scare him. Bruce, but grunts and hums don't count. Especially when Dick thinks that he drove you away with his arguing. And you, you added life. Your shoes would click down the hallway. You didn't make it your life's mission to be stealthy like the other two. You laughed, stumbled, bumped into things, and made the house creak. He missed it. He missed knowing that at the sound of the usually well-oiled doors opening, you'd pop your head in and make his days a little brighter, noisier.
"Hey, chum," he doesn't even glance up from his book when Bruce walks into the library. "You want to go into town and get some ice cream at that place near the cinema?"
Dick aggressively flips the page. He pointedly ignores Bruce's approaching footsteps.
"We can get a scoop of sorbet while we're there. Maybe bring it to someone."
Another page flip.
Then, he remembers. You like sorbet. Slowly, Dick lifts his eyes to meet his adoptive dad's. With a dramatic sigh and a sharp snap shut, the book gets put down and he's already beating him to the door.
Hours later, when the three of you walk back into the Manor after an afternoon of ice cream and the park, Dick finally feels like things are going back to normal. He can hear you muttering with Bruce from the open door of the library's second floor. You're debating which book to read with him before bed. There's your laughter, somehow finding something Bruce said funny. Somehow. Then, when his eyes drift shut, sleepy from the boring 'History of the Modern Wheel' the sounds of your footsteps on the creaking wood floors lull him to sleep.
—
The first thing you hang up in your side of the closet is your wedding dress. Zipped up and safely tucked away. Before your foot catches on something, sending you stumbling around the walk-in. You look down and around you at the dozen or so boxes surrounding your feet. Twelve more to go.
Sneakily, a familiar hand finds its way around your waist, settling on your hipbone. You tilt your head up and find Bruce. A habit of his entering and leaving rooms without a single sound. There's a little gleam in his blue eyes meaning he's got something on his mind.
"I meant it when I said I could move my stuff over. I don't wear half of these things anyway." His chin points to his side of the walk in closet. The smaller side. Not that it's lacking in any way though. It's still big enough for his watches, belts, socks, shoes, pants, suits, tuxedos, seasonal wear, and everything in between with room to grow.
"And I told you that I have plenty of room." You remind him, doubting that you'll be needing any more space. It falls on deaf ears though. Bruce sees an opportunity to give you something and he will take it. You speak before he can charm his way into getting what he wants: giving you whatever you want. "So, no. Just help me unpack."
With a nod that comes almost too quick, you regret not being more suspicious when he crouches down and opens up the first box.
Not too long later, your side is full and you haven't even made much of a dent in the wardrobe. Never mind that because your husband is already herding you to the study like you're a prized sheep. The heavy wooden door pushes in and you notice the new layout. What used to be his large and heavy desk in the centre of the room is now gone. Instead, the aforementioned desk is on the right while a matching one is on the left. Both standing over the same rug with their mirroring pairs of armchairs and desk lamps.
"Bruce?" You raise an eyebrow at him. He has the gall to look proud. "Why on Earth did you put a second desk in here?"
"It's pretty self-explanatory." His hand rubs your waist before leading you along to your desk. Complete with your own row of bookshelves behind it.
"I don't need a desk. At least not here. If I ever want to work from home, I can do it in the dining room or the library." You feel the guilt ebb up to the surface as you take in the meaning of the action. You're Mrs. Wayne now. One half of the Manor's owners. You get your own desk. Your own closet. This place is yours even if you only married into it.
"You shouldn't have to work at the dining table." He tuts, gentle leading you to sir down on the chair. A very nice and very comfortable leather chair.
"I don't need to take up half of your study."
"Our study," Bruce corrects, leading against the desk while he rubs your hand. "Plus, it suits you Mrs. Wayne."
"Oh, does it?"
"Perfectly."
When you glance up from your laptop's screen two months later and see Bruce as equally tired of his own work, you can't help but chuckle under your breath. Working across from him, having a space where the two of you can focus, and be professionals in your own right at home is nice. But the quick glances and giddy half-smiles are what convinces you that your place is here. At at a desk across from your husband, a routine of comfort and passing around printer paper so boring and mundane that it just makes sense.
—
There aren't many things in the Manor that are normal. But the plastic plates you bought are one of those things.
It all started a few months ago when you and Bruce brought a skinny little Jason to the Manor. He was wide-eyed and jumpy. Every time Bruce cleared his throat. Every time a piece of silverware clattered onto the floor. Every time you sighed just a little too loud. For Jason, the Manor was a ticking bomb. One wrong move and he was convinced that whatever dream he was in, he'd be ripped right out of. It took time to get him where he is today, even if it still rips your heart out to see him so shy and so scared in what should be his new home. But the plastic plates helped. It got dropped on the floor? Wouldn't even chip. The design faded away in the dishwasher? No one really likes Batman anyway. Jason didn't have to worry about his knife making a horrible scratching sound. It was cheap, it was durable, and it made him feel less like a kid in a museum.
You watch how comfortable he seems to be with the new tableware. as he sets the plates out for breakfast. Dick gets the Superman plate. Bruce gets the Robin plate. You get the Batman plate. Jason gets the Wonder Woman plate.
Turning back to the stove, you flip another pancake and pile it onto the stack. Dick is still in his room, probably asleep like any other normal seventeen year old. Bruce is juicing some oranges and carrots. And Alfred is enjoying his day off. It's all a quiet hum as the fog and dew wake up the Manor's grounds.
Until your eldest crashes in and slumps across the breakfast table.
"I just put those plates down." Jason frowns, his personality always coming out around Dick.
"Thanks." Dick mumbles, curling his Superman plate around his arm.
"Dickhead." Jason mutters and joins your side at the stove. Bruce just glances up, shaking his head with a soft smile.
"Rough night, chum?" Your husband sets the pitcher of juice onto the table and rubs Dick's back.
"Teen Titans." He mumbles against the wooden surface.
"Hm." Bruce nods and pours him a glass.
On your side of the kitchen, you and Jason ignore them. Ever since his arrival and him noticing your lack of consuming of any substance, Jason has stuck by your side. Your little sidekick for anything, really. Primarily in the kitchen whenever Alfred was busy with something else. You hand him the ladle as he pours out another pancake. A nice little circle that sizzles on the butter. Neatly, he sets it back into the bowl and you then hand him the spatula. He likes it. Cooking something. Making something yummy and warm and fresh. He times it perfectly, waiting until the biggest bubble pops before he flips it onto the over side. He doesn't sneak in a bite or steal an entire pancake. He just waits and lets them cook.
With a full plate, you let Jason carry it over to the other two. He settles it in the centre before taking a seat next to yours. You slide in with a jam that Dick likes, reminding him of when the circus toured in Eastern Europe, and some maple syrup. Everyone digs in. Dick piles his plate high. Your husband gives you a small thank you as you serve him a few pancakes while he pours everyone some juice. And Jason hunches over his plate protectively. The four of you move in an easy quiet, the sound of chewing and the early morning birds waking up the kitchen.
"How was Maths with Mr. Bouyer this week?" Bruce asks Dick while wiping some stickiness off of Jason's face.
"Ugh," your teenager rolls his eyes and slumps into his seat. "I have no idea how he's even still allowed to teach. All he does is lecture us on maths for two hours. He doesn't even give us exercises or homework to practise any maths."
"How-"
"I don't know!" Dick cuts your husband off with an exasperated gesture. "I'm gonna fail the IB all because of some stuck up teacher who thinks that he's lecturing in some prestigious college when it's actually a bunch of teenagers at Gotham Prep. Like dude, no one cares so just do your job."
"Wow," you blink.
"Hm." Bruce agrees. "I'll have a word with the school next week."
"And you, Jay?" You turn towards Jason while Dick shoves another pancake into his gob. "How was your book report?"
"Good," he smiles. "I got an A+. And then Lory thought that it was cool that I got an A and she shared her animal crackers with me."
You share a proud smile with Bruce.
—
The Manor is dead. Ever since Jason has passed and Dick needed his own space, the Wayne Manor has died. You and Bruce still live there, but it's just a space to take shelter. Not a home.
It's hard, staying indoors. Walking past the hallway that led to Dick or Jason's bedrooms. But you have to do it daily now.
Cassandra showed up into your lives not looking for parents but for a way out. You still didn't understand out of what, but neither of you were going to deny her a safe space to live in. So she took the third bedroom down that corridor. You let Cassandra settle into life at the Manor. That often meant the fourteen year old disappearing on the grounds during the day and coming back inside for a quiet lunch or snacks. She didn't linger in the library like Jason used to or run down the halls like Dick. She'd just give you and Bruce your space until it was time for bed. Then, like a routine you hadn't even noticed you were doing, you and your husband would read to her before going to sleep. It started when the two of you learnt that Dick had no formal education. Not that you could blame him when the circus was always moving and much more interesting than a classroom. But you needed to fill the gap. You and Bruce didn't want your kids to fall victim to the million word gap.
She didn't speak much, if at all. Just a series of nods and head shakes. But you could tell she was trying, even if it was hard. She'd mouth the words you and Bruce would read to her. She'd take an extra second to scan the kitchen's pantry, tilting her head curiously at the spice labelled 'adobo' that had remained untouched in a thin layer of dust. And, she'd linger in the greenhouse reading the rusted iron plaques.
You had caught her one Saturday morning, crouched down between the leaves.
In a pair of gardening gloves and jeans that had seen better days, you came into the abandoned greenhouse with two goals in mind: clear out the weeds, and to find something to do instead of work and grieve. The Laura Wayne greenhouse and botanical gardens seemed like the perfect place to do so. Untouched when the former Mr. and Mrs. Wayne passed then neglected again when Jason joined them. The intricate glass and ironwork was stained with rain and mud. Inside, the designed planter boxes for exotic plants were hidden by dead branches and dried leaves.
"Cass?" You approach her slowly, moving to crouch with her. "What're you doing, honey?"
She lifts her head up, her big brown eyes scrunched up as she focuses.
"Reading." she finally says, voice soft.
"Yeah? Is it interesting?" You take a glove off and brush a strand of black hair behind her ear. The braid you tied for her at the breakfast table is already drooping.
She just nods, a small finger coming out to trace the letters. JASMINUM POLYANTHUM, Many-Flowered Jasmine. You look at the mess of dirt and branches. Not a single chance you would've guessed it was that by looking at it.
"I'm going to do some gardening," you put your glove back on and straighten up, "do you want to join? I have an extra pair of gloves."
Cass gives you a small nod accompanied by an even smaller smile. You hand her the gloves and the two of you get to work. By sunset, there's a wheelbarrow and trash bags full of dead soil and plants on the outside of the greenhouse. You had managed to scrub down most of the windows while Cass polished the plaques. By her side, she had taken the notebook and pen you brought down, taking her time to neatly write out every plant that used to be there.
She jots down another one, squinting between the letters carved out on the iron and the pen in her hand. You keep on scrubbing at the glass and cobwebs.
"Mrs. Wayne, Miss Cassandra," Alfred's voice pulls the two of you out of your focus. "I believe the two of you are done for the day."
You share a look with Cass, gaging her reaction. Her, like your husband, doesn't give anything away. Of course.
"There is lemonade and sandwiches on the south balcony. I will take care of disposing of all of this." The butler holds the greenhouse's door open even wider while his steady gaze and tone leave no room for argument. With a sweaty sigh, you toss your gloves into your basket and Cass does the same. Your knees pop as you stand, your 30s definitely not loving being crouched over all day. With your hunger finally catching up to you, you and Cass don't have the second thought to glance back at Alfred, and miss his fond smile and shake of his head.
—
"I'm Tim Drake. I've been watching your family for a few months now. Not in a creepy way. Technically I'm your neighbour, just a forest and property over."
You blink, stunned by the eleven year old who just climbed into library through the window. He, like somehow all of the children that have found their way into your lives, has a head of black hair. His blue eyes remind you of Bruce, Dick, and Jason but there's a frantic exhaustion that only your husband seems to permanently carry. He's holding a few things. A backpack, a rope, and a bicycle helmet. He's got knee and elbow pads on and a scuff on his shin.
"Bruce is Batman, right? Well, I know he is but I just wanted to let you know that I know. You've also taken in a girl. I don't know her name, haven't figured that out yet."
You don't move. He looks harmless. A cute little kid. But his cadence is eerily similar to the once Bruce has when he's verbally sorting through a case. Fast, focused, and mostly for himself.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," you get out of your chair, wincing when it hits the bookcase behind you. "Just give me a second?"
At his small nod, you nearly race down the hallway for Bruce. Opening the sitting room's door with too much energy, you find your husband watching a movie with Cass.
"Is everything okay-"
"There is a random child in our study who's been stalking us and knows that you're Batman."
Bruce pauses then nods, just once. Then he stands up, tall and stable versus your panicking heart. He makes it to the door and settles a hand on your waist.
"Give me a few minutes, okay?" His voice drops to that soft timbre he usually speaks to you in when he wants to help you calm down.
"Okay."
Thirty minutes later and sick of waiting in the unknown, you head back to the library. Sat by the fire in on a leather sofa, Tim is curled up in a blanket with his gear by Bruce's feet. He doesn't seem to care that you've walked in, or that Cassandra has silently followed in behind you to settle by Bruce's side. He just keeps on talking.
"So yeah. They didn't want to get an abortion and had me. They're at a dinner party right now. In Switzerland. They won't be back until next week." Tim tugs on a loose thread. "Anyways, I tracked your patrol routes with Killer Croc's and the water levels of the sewers keep on rising. I'm guessing there's something there."
And Bruce just responds as if this is normal. And for him, maybe it is.
"He's been unwell," your husband nods, his Batman voice gravelly. "It's not easy being him."
"Yeah, I've been looking at different kinds of therapy-" and you stop paying attention because all you can see is a neglected little kid that fits in just like the three others, mirroring and interacting with Bruce in a way that feels natural. He doesn't look out of place surrounded by heavy books and tall shelves. He doesn't even bat an eye at the ridiculous wealth of the Wayne Manor. Not at the marble fireplace or at the 16th century bust on a pedestal in the corner. He just carries on talking with the same eccentricities as Bruce, finally finding someone who can understand him.
—
Jason's back.
He's now eighteen, scarred, a couple inches taller than Bruce, and still the scared little boy you took in all those years ago.
But he's back for vengeance on Bruce.
All day he's been tormenting your poor husband. With already a few strands of grey making a rare appearance in his dark hair, you suspect that he'll have a few more by the end of today. Jason's been scaring Bruce all day. At breakfast, he got Tim to help him with a hologram of him, making Jason's ghost haunt the halls. Bruce choked on his coffee. After lunch, when Bruce was just in his study looking over some papers, he got Cass to grab his ankles. Batman let out an embarrassing yelp. Mid-afternoon, Jason kept it simple by hiding behind a wall in the grand hall and jumping out at Bruce. Your husband had to redirect his punch last minute.
Even during a halloween party, he hasn't stopped.
Excited screaming and giggling bounce off of the tall ceilings of the ballroom. The two of the city's orphanages are celebrating their halloween at the Manor. Kids of all ages dressed in whatever costume they could afford or make fill up the room. There's a few older kids sticking by the buffet table, enjoying some warm food. The younger ones haven't stopped moving since they arrived. As if they were transported to another world, they hide behind pillars and inspect every inch of the Manor's ballroom like it's a giant dollhouse. Two kids are waving their fingers through the fog being emitted by the cauldron in the corner. Some are playing hide and seek behind fake cobwebs. There's a Dracula chasing a unicorn with a giant fake spider.
You watch on, in a black dress and witch hat while Bruce and Alfred make sure everything is going smoothly. Cass and Tim are busy distributing candy, dressed as two bats. Dick will pass by later, before he's headed to a Teen Titans halloween party. He sent a text about Discowing that all your kids groaned at.
And Jason is nowhere to be seen.
It's only an hour later when Bruce makes a speech that gets interrupted by giggles and excited raucous does he appear again. The room has gone dark, a single light shining on Bruce. Jason's by your side again sporting a satisfied grin.
"Jay, what did you do?" You don't have to glance at your son to know that he's planned something.
"Shh. B's giving a speech." You can hear the humour in his voice.
"Thank you for coming tonight. We hope you had a great time and stocked up on lots of candy," Bruce pauses, having expected the excited screaming at the mention of candy. "It was a pleasure celebrating with you all tonight. Happy halloween-"
A loud boom of thunder cuts through the air and makes the room jump. Lightning strikes the sky outside and a bat swoops from the ceiling. Bats that are supposed to be fake. Your husband startles at the winged creature, flinching just little before he composes himself and walks off of the makeshift stage. More bats descend, and the orphanages' caretakers hurry with getting the kids out of there before one gets scratched or bitten.
"Jason." You turn to look at him.
"Okay," he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I wasn't expecting them to all come alive."
Your family spend the next hour trying to shoo the bats outside without getting infected.
—
Ding dong. Ding dong.
The Manor's formal living room smells like pine, cinnamon, and snow. Christmas music plays from a record player on a console table, one of Bruce's old records spinning. There's a pile of neatly and not-so-neatly wrapped presents under the tree. A solid pine tree from the forest just outside decorated in silver tinsel and crystal ornaments. Wreaths, pine needles, and mistletoe line every door and window while a fresh layer of snow piles onto the foot of white outside. On the central sofa facing the hearth, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Stephanie are all piled on. Each in their own versions of festive pyjamas. For your eldest, it means a hideous and tacky Christmas sweater along with the silliest slippers he could find, Rudolph with bells. Jason opted for a green hoodie and some plaid pyjama pants. Duke doesn't mind joining Dick in his chaotic fashion choices because his sweater is as equally appalling and his slippers just as eye-catching. Steph just settled for her usual pyjamas and slapped on a Santa hat.
On the other couch adjacent to them are Cass and Tim. Cassandra's in the nutcracker knit you and Bruce got her last Christmas, curled up with a mug of tea and a pillow on her lap. Tim's in a mishmash of clothing, none of which actually belong to him. Bruce's pyjama pants, Cass's t-shirt, Dick's clogs, and Jason's sweater.
On an loveseat where Bruce insists that you remained glued to his side, your husband is in his usual silk pyjamas and fluffy cotton robe. There's a slight scruff on his jaw and a content look in his eyes seeing everyone here. His arm is around your shoulders, watching your kids and wards exchange gifts and throw crumpled up wrapping paper at each other.
"For you," he murmurs softly, handing you a velvet box. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple as you open it. You gently unfold the delicate wrapping paper and set the lid of the box down, revealing...a wonky tray. Just a simple ceramic tray with a glaze that created spots on the surface.
"Thank you," you smile, pressing a kiss to Bruce's stubbly cheek despite being extremely confused.
"It's for your jewellery." He explains, his hand rubbing yours. "I know you have too much to fit in the tray but you always leave your wedding ring and necklace out. Thought I could make you something for it."
"Oh, I can definitely tell that you made it." You chuckle.
—
New year, new...kid?
You and Bruce weren't expecting a ten year old on your driveway as the new year starts. The two of you have just returned from watching the fireworks from the Wayne Enterprises rooftop, giddy and tired. You kissed at midnight, Bruce said something cheesy about spending another year by your side with his arms around you. You kissed again, smiling against each other's lips.
And now there's a ten year old boy sat on the stone steps with a scowl surrounded by heavy leather suitcases.
"Your home is simple, father." He says before either you or Bruce can get out a hello.
Father? Already? You mean, you and Bruce have eventually heard a 'mom' or 'dad' come from each of your kids. But father? Within the first few seconds of meeting?
The new addition doesn't notice or care about your surprised faces because he's standing up and dusting himself off with impeccable posture. Olive skin, green eyes, and eyebrows just like Bruce's. If you didn't know any better you would've assumed he was some long lost biological child. Yet again, all of your kids somehow ended up all looking uncannily too much like Bruce despite not a single one sharing his DNA.
"I'm Damian Wayne Al Ghul. Your son." He announces, tilting his chin up with conviction. You stare down at the ten year old looking far too regal for the Manor's stone steps and manicured front garden. His bags surround him, leather that looks like it dates from decades ago, sitting on the ground like a makeshift throne. The only light comes from the iron lamps shining behind him, casting his shadow down the pebbled driveway.
"My mother has sent for me to live with you. Talia al Ghul."
—
A/N: I’m in a Bruce Wayne mood idk why.
Also, I wanted to change the design of my Wayne manor build in the sims but there’s no infinite lots which sucks. I even bought Paralives to see if there was one but it’s too small (probably should’ve googled it instead of just buying the game but hey at least it’s not EA taking my money). Considering I want to add a private beach, a forest with horse or walking trails, a small secondary home for Alfred, a large driveway with a car port, stables, a botanical garden, a pool, the manor and its three wings, a lookout point on a trail, and a greenhouse. I think I might have to lock in with AutoCAD and rhino or get into revit…😭 (Or just hope that TwistedMexi finishes their Create A World mod soon enough. I'm so excited for it)
I haven’t read any Tim Drake comics or anything about his origins but I checked Reddit and apparently his parents are alive so…that’s confusing. Anyways, I made his parents rich assholes who never wanted a kid but didn’t abort because it’s against their values so Tim has sort of emotionally latched onto Bruce. I feel like it's an explanation that makes sense but doesn't force them into witness protection, yk? Also Cass is older than she probably would've been when taken in by bruce because I needed her to stay closer in age to Jason than Tim. Comics say she would've been 8 when going to bruce but it confused my timeline too much.
Not entirely proofread so if you spot any mistakes or anything that reads awkwardly let me know! I really don't mind and even encourage it (given that I'm allowed to disagree or not). I got kind of impatient and wanted to post it halfway through. Nearly considered splitting it up into two parts but if I did that I'd probably never post the second part. Hopefully you can't tell that I'm losing steam towards the end. Also, can you guess which part corresponds to which area of the Manor?
