I want Bruce to have a break down. Not a cool edgy one, like a pathetic sob fest. Almost disturbing to see this grown man crying this much. Why? Because he just doesn't get it.
He doesnt get why hes so broken.
He doesnt get why he always gets the short end of the stick.
He doesnt get why he can't just understand people.
He doesnt like making his family angry. It doesn't make him feel good when theyre practically boiling with rage and stop talking to him for months. Especially when hes trying so hard. He's able to pass as normal with the public because they only see him in curated moments. His children see him as he truly is.
And he truly is a ugly thing.
So one day, after years of misunderstanding and silent treatments, he breaks. He tried not to. He always made sure to go hide somewhere to cry to not burden his children with his ugly emotions. But he cant this time.
He just doesn't get it.
What did he do wrong? Why can't he fix it? Why can't he be right?
Why can't he be enough.
And so, in front of all of his children. He cries. They have never seen him cry. Not like this. Especially not falling to his knees and sobbing.
Asking over and over again. Why?
They don't have an answer.
They don't have anything. Anything other than the sickly feeling of dread. Because they know they brought him to this point.
Not gods, monsters, or terrorists.
No, only his own children could bring the batman to his knees.
kitty bruce and his canine kids who are larger than him in their animal forms. bruce tries to groom them but it takes him like an hour to just finish their head 😭 and he cant even force them to stay still bc he’s so tiny compared to them.
i also have this vivid image in my head of bruce in his kitty form being smothered by the kids in their own animal forms bc they found him trying to take a nap on the couch. i can also see the kids scruffing bruce to kidnap him to take a nap together LOL. the kids love their dad and no matter how big or old they are, they still think they’re tiny pups (in bruce’s eyes, they are)
fed up with Bruce tracking them/invading their privacy in the name of safety, i like to think the batkids pull an uno reverse and microchip Bruce while he’s passed out after a bad patrol injury. they start tracking his phone activity and texting him about wherever he is. bringing up things they know he’s searched for one his phone/people he’s been talking to, showing up at wherever he is during the day and interrupting him just to prove they always know where he is; just overall trying to annoy him the best they can.
issue is, Bruce is just so happy to see and talk to his kids at any point that he doesn’t even notice the breach of privacy, and the kids just end up feeling really awkward about how happy their dad is to see them.
Jason will bring up something in conversation with Bruce that was only privately relayed through texts between Bruce and a colleague, smirking because he knows Bruce is gonna be really paranoid about who’s watching his texts, except Bruce just smiles and happily chats with him for thirty minutes and he’s in a good mood all day because Jason willingly had a casual conversation with him, and when the JL ask why Batman’s in such a good mood at a meeting later that day Jason just goes bright red and doesn’t know what to say because he didn’t realise how much Bruce genuinely craves just catching up with him every now and then.
Dick will stalk him for weeks and wait until Bruce has a really tough busy day at work, specifically so he can wait for the evening where Bruce finally has a single moment to himself in a bar somewhere to relax, and then he busts in loudly sitting down next to Bruce and talking non-stop while ordering a drink, thinking that Bruce is going to be mad because this was his one peaceful moment and Dick ruined it by constantly tracking him. but instead the second Bruce realises Dick’s there all his exhaustion disappears. he gets a really wide genuinely pleased look on his face and happily offers to buy Dick a drink because ‘it’s so rare that they get to hang out!’ and Dick is left floundering because he was trying to be an asshole but now he just feels bad that he doesn’t spend time with Bruce outside of patrol business.
Tim keeps watching him through security cameras and updating him through text on his location in an attempt to make him tired of the constant supervision, but every time he texts Bruce like ‘you just walked into starbucks for the second time today.’ Bruce will just openly smile at his phone and respond like ‘would you like me to get you a drink? i can drop it off at your office if you’d like :)’ and Tim has to give up almost immediately.
essentially i like the idea of the batkids trying to annoy Bruce with themselves, forgetting that Bruce is just a dad who really loves his kids and can’t ever be annoyed by them.
I like my Batman a little eldritch flavoured, observe:
His fingers are just a tiny bit too claw-like, especially when Batman. It's really useful when climbing or having to catch someone (mostly his kids) but it makes him feel the tiniest bit less human.
His body temperature really depends on his mood; happy, loved? He's warm! Perfect cuddle temperature! If he's stressed, sad, tired? He's cold, as in 'I just came back from outside and it was raining'-cold
His eyes are just a tiny bit reflective, it makes the staring a bit more creepy and Bruce sometimes feels a bit insecure about it.
His hearing, sight & his memory is higher then the average population. He hasn't noticed it yet, sometimes he just drops a "They're around the 3rd corner" and his current teammate just has to deal with it.
His intuition is frankly disturbing. His kids can not do something that is incredibly dangerous without at least a text: "Do not."
He got this as a gift from Gotham herself, she saw the little boy in the alley and went "Hmm, you're my favourite now."
Clark was just watching the remains of the building that had collapsed when a sea of humans—his fellow reporters—came running toward him, despite their imbalance and comparative slowness, weaving around rubble in stiff shoes and heavy coats, clutching microphones and cameras to their chests.
They shouted his chosen name as they approached.
“Superman!”
“Superman, were there any fatalities?”
“Can the audience get a comment on the incident?”
“Superman, over here!”
He could not help smiling as he lowered himself the rest of the way to the ground.
Immediately they crowded around him in a dense, warm cluster of bodies and noise, each one trying to angle themselves nearest without actually touching him—though several did, briefly.
Clark’s smile widened.
Rao! They were adorable!
He could see every tiny movement inside them. The pull and release of tendons under soft, soft, soft skin. The frantic contractions of little hearts hammering away in narrow ribcages. Lungs filling and emptying and filling again.
He felt like he was drowning in kittens. Tiny baby kittens.
One of them shoved a microphone so close to his face it nearly bumped his chin. Clark went a little cross-eyed trying to focus on it before looking back down at the reporter holding it.
The man froze immediately under direct eye contact.
Clark has to hold himself back from squeezing his cheeks.
Batman was exhausted.
Most humans were exhausted all the time, he’d noticed. Their little bodies weren’t built well. Too much stress weakened them quickly. Bad sleep patterns. Poor nutrition. Everything hurt them.
Clark, naturally, lifted Batman to put him to rest in any nearby surface. He trashed in Clark’s arms initially but otherwise didn’t protest.
Batman was, to Clark, the equivalent of a particularly hostile alley cat. Tiny. Violent. Malnourished. Feral beyond belief.
And somehow convinced he could fight things thousands of times larger than himself.
Did Batman sometimes forgot that he was just as human and fragile as the villains in Gotham?
Well, no harm done. Clark was not interested in fighting Batman at all.
Shamefully, it doesn't happen the next day. Or the day after that, or the week after that. Shamefully, they act as normally as they can while re-evaluating Alfred's every interaction with Bruce. They're sure he's noticed, but Bruce only silently observes as they make sure he's never left alone with the butler.
It's subtle, but it's there, how Alfred manages Bruce, as if their father can't be comfortable in his own home. It's in the disparaging comments regarding Bruce's nightlife and public persona. It's in the cold shoulder when Bruce is particularly obstinate with him. It's in the warning tut when Bruce, preoccupied and stressed, rhythmically taps his fingers.
It's in Alfred's cutting, watchful eyes and it's in Bruce's forever-tense shoulders and aborted movements.
Shamefully, a family of vigilantes well-versed in instigation is struck silent, is sick with fear and genuine revulsion at the prospect of someone they love (loved?) and trust (…trusted?) hurting their father. Their dad, who loved them and saved them and always tried for them.
Shamefully, they all seem to be waiting for someone else to start the conversation; shamefully, when it happens, it's almost by accident.
Dick is helping Alfred bring out dinner at the dining table while Tim and Damian wash up, and Jason and Cas set the table; ever since they found out, the entire family has made a point of being home so as not to miss The Conversation.
"-swear, Timmers and Kon are not getting together by the end of the year. I'd bet on it!" Jason is saying when Dick enters. Cas raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. "$100?" She shakes her head and grins, holding up five fingers. "$500??"
Dick laughs out loud as Jason visibly rethinks his bet. It's never good to go against Cas, but especially when she's this confident.
"You know what, I forgot but I actually quit gambling. Trying out a new thing…" Jason lies shamelessly, much to Cas's amusement. With the table set, Alfred brings in the last plate.
"What are we laughing at?" comes Tim's voice as he jumps down the stairs.
"Most likely, you, Drake," Damian tuts from behind him. He goes down to sit, almost falling to the floor when Tim yanks the chair from under him. He returns Tim's easy grin with a glare, but says nothing as Tim pushes the chair back in for him. Turnabout is fair play, and all that.
"Eugh, mushrooms?" Tim wrinkles his nose as he sits. "Don't we have vegetables that are less… slimy?"
Alfred raises an eyebrow at the comment. "Especially as a young, growing vigilante, I expect you to eat every bite, master Tim."
And that-
That rankles at something in Dick.
Food was a common issue noted in Bruce's Arkham patient reports. He struggled with texture, and mushrooms especially had been hard for him. Mealtimes turned into exposure therapy sessions where Bruce was forced to choke down bite after bite of food, even when it made him sick. And when he did sick up, he had to eat that too.
Alfred would have known about that. He knows, and there are still fucking mushrooms on the table.
There's a sudden shift in the air, a tension that didn't belong after such a common refrain. Intentionally, he drags his eyes up to Tim's, gets a nod. From his periphery, he can see that the others are suddenly sitting straighter, eyes sharp and knuckles white. Guess Dick isn't the only one suddenly electrified with anger.
"Or what?" Dick asks casually. It has to be him; somehow, they all know it has to be Dick. "You'll throw us in Arkham?"
Alfred, finally, catches on to the energy from the others. Unfazed as always, he responds with a cool, "If there is something you'd like to say, master Dick, then speak plainly." It's a challenge and an out in one; Dick could laugh and end it here and now, and Alfred would let it go.
Or, he could dig his teeth in deeper like a rabid dog.
"Sure, Alfie, we can talk. Let's talk about how a grieving eight-year-old under your care was sent to Arkham for electroshock therapy. Let's talk about the torture Bruce endured at your order."
Alfred sighs and straightens. "I do not know how you came upon that information, but I assure you it was not an easy decision to make. If I'd had another choice, I would have taken it."
"Another choice?! You had every other choice in the world, and you chose to hurt him." Dick lets his distress be swallowed up by anger. He wants to hurt for failing Bruce so badly, for never noticing this toxic dynamic, for keeping silent for weeks after realizing it. For weaponizing it, for joking about it.
"Master Dick! You have no idea what I was dealing with; I'd hope that if your child were as beastly as your father, you'd make similar arrangements!"
"Who the fuck are you calling a beast?" How could anyone look at Bruce, or even the Batman, and think beastly? Bruce and Batman both signal safety for Dick, something instinctual and soul-deep. Sure, the Bat might be scary sometimes, he guesses, but the Bat exists from compassion. He is the hand that reaches in the dark, no matter how many times he's burned or bitten. Sometimes, Dick thinks he's the only one to see that.
Dick doesn't realize he's out of his chair and snarling until Cas is there, lightning-quick, with a hand on his bicep. She casts a burning glare at Alfred. Jason's jaw hangs open, and Tim has a comforting hand on Damian's back as betrayal crosses the boy's face. Tim tilts his chin up to speak.
"I can tell you right now, Alfred, that we would show that child the same love Bruce showed us. I really wanted to believe you'd regretted it. How could you have…?" Tim covers his mouth with a fist, gaze drifting to the floor.
They'd talked about it, what to do if Alfred regretted it. None of them believed it, not with the way he still manages Bruce, but they wanted to. It brought comfort, that they might not lose Alfred forever if they confronted the abuses he inflicted on their dad. Because, god, they still love him. He betrayed their father at his weakest and most vulnerable point and they all still fucking love him.
There were good times, weren't there?
Weren't there?
Cas takes the lead from there. "Dad wears… someone else when you're around. He has not been free to be himself." She swallows. "He's always burdened."
"I had to," Alfred says firmly. "You do not know what he was like, and you are lucky for that. You would never respect him as he was then. You'd certainly never love him."
As if any part of Dick could not love every part of Bruce. As if Bruce didn't save him, all of them. As if Bruce isn't the best man Dick knows.
What's it matter if he's autistic? How does that detract from his compassion, his intelligence, his bravery, his love? Because there is no feeling like being loved by Bruce Wayne, of huddling under his cape in Gotham rains or crawling into his bed after nightmares. Of his hard-earned praise or harder-earned laughs.
Bruce doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve his abuser still controlling him, eating Bruce's food and living in Bruce's home. He deserves fucking peace, and Dick will claw it out of the man in front of him with his bare hands if he has to.
He tears forward over the table, Cas stepping back and letting him get the first hit in. Alfred stumbles back, and the fear in his eyes sends wicked satisfaction down Dick's spine. His fist is centimeters away from Alfred's jaw when fingers wrap around his wrist and twist Dick to the right. There, Bruce stands over him, eyes flickering between his kids. Dick looks around too, tries to see what his dad must be seeing.
Tim and Damian are still by their seats at the dining table, standing but turned around to face Dick and Alfred in the walkway. Cas is across from them, where Dick had just been behind the table. Jason stands to Bruce's right, by the head of the table.
"I heard the local circus lost its elephant's toys."
Dick turns back to face Bruce. "…Nah, they're in the elephant's trunk. I'm not mind-controlled, Bruce."
"Your fist was seconds from colliding with Alfred," Bruce says dryly. He positions himself more firmly in front of Alfred as he waits for an explanation, and Dick hates it. How could his dad still protect the man who threw him to sadistic doctors, who saw no value in Bruce's rawest self? Irrationally, he's mad at Bruce, too, for protecting the man who hurt his dad.
"He sent you to Arkham, Bruce," Jason says quietly, breaking the long silence.
Bruce takes .14 seconds more to blink than usual. "I'm aware, Jason. I was there…?"
"That's the issue! B, you were just a kid, an autistic kid, and instead of- of- learning to support you, and make you feel safe, they sent you to fucking Arkham!"
Bruce looks at his kids again. "And this bothers you."
Dick wants to slam his head into the wall, but he settles for pushing his head into Bruce's shoulder and accepting the automatic arm wrapping around him as Bruce releases his wrist.
"Yeah, B," he says quietly. "It really fucking bothers us."
He closes his eyes as fingers rake through his hair.
"Alfred was right to do it, chum."
Dick jerks back, eyes wide as he stares at Bruce. What? Dick wants to tear out the tongues of Bruce's critics for just insulting Bruce; there's no saying what he'd do if he faced the sadistic Arkham physicians right now. And Bruce is saying they were right to do it?
Before he can get a word in, Bruce holds up a hand.
"No, listen. He's right. What I was back then…" Bruce shakes his head in shame. "I'm sorry you found out I was ever like that. I'm sorry I was ever like that. I needed to go, okay? I needed that."
Dick is stunned speechless. Actually, if he tries to talk right now, he's going to vomit.
"You- you reformed it, though. You wouldn't do that if you didn't know it was wrong. You do know it's wrong, right?" Jason asks weakly.
"It's more complicated than that. I needed it. I was something… I was uncivilized, undone, and I needed to be made human. Of course I don't believe any other child should go through it, Jaylad. It was cruel and unjust, but I needed it. Just me, son."
From behind Bruce, Alfred lays one arm on Bruce's shoulder, a rare comforting touch.
"You did well, master Bruce," he says quietly. Bruce closes his eyes and lets out a measured exhale. Dick turns and catches Jason's eye. There's helpless pain in there, but that has never stopped a Bat. They'll keep trying, they'll yell and shout and grab Bruce by the shoulders and shake until he understands that he matters too.
A quiet snuffle from Dick's right distracts him. Damian is looking at the floor in shame, fists clenched at his sides. Tim is looking down at him and still rubbing his back. "Dami?"
"Baba," he starts, then stops. "Father," he tries again, stiff. "I have something I must confess." He swallows thickly, and Bruce can feel his son's discomfort and shame from here.
Automatically, and against his own will, Bruce connects the dots between the pure anguish on Damian's face and the topic at hand, then forcibly tries to disconnect them. Still, his heart stops in his chest. No, there's no way. There is simply- it can't be. Damian must want to change the topic now to a case he messed up on, or something. Desperately, he hopes Damian won't say what he thinks he will say.
Desperately, he hopes he has not abandoned his son to a cycle of fear that Bruce is still stuck in.
"I believe I was born as- broken and beastly as you say you were." Bruce stops breathing. "I read the patient reports and the news articles. I also…" Damian audibly swallows before finally looking up at Bruce. He holds his hands behind his back, chin down but eyes level. It's the attentive and submissive stance every League member knows.
"Father, Grandfather noted the same… eccentricities in me when I was young. They successfully trained it out of me, but I must confess I have started indulging myself in them. I am, as you say, beastly." Damian dips his head and lowers his eyes in shame. "I'm sorry, Father." His voice had wavered throughout his speech, but he barely paused long enough to gather himself before continuing.
Bruce stares at his son in shock and a tidal wave of horror. His son? His son, saying he was coming undone?? Damian, as human and kind and brave as any of them, but all he saw of himself was this- this beast?
Because Bruce had said it, and meant it, but only for himself. How could- It is different, Bruce is different. Never mind that the behaviors are the same; it's different. It has to be.
He stumbles past Dick and kneels over to where Damian stands, hands hovering awkwardly over him in a moment of uncertainty. With Damian's words still pulsing in his mind, he settles a hand on Damian's cheek, gentle and sorrowful.
"Damian, you- you're not a beast, my boy." And there is such visceral pain in Bruce's voice, so evident that it makes half the room flinch.
His son is the same as him, and his son knows. He read Bruce's medical reports; he knows. Bruce's eyes flicker to the table where he knows a bowl of mushrooms sits. He's seen Damian eat them before- did he have the same issues Bruce had had, at that age? Had he felt too unsafe to express his distaste?
Despite Bruce's best efforts, had Damian felt unsafe his whole time in Bruce's care? Bruce tried so damn hard to steep love into the very foundations of this home so Dick would never feel alone, then Jason and Tim and Cass and now Damian, but it turns out he's been failing his youngest son.
Beastly, he said. Damian saw himself as beastly. Did he constantly feel isolated, even in the midst of his peers? Did his erratic impulses leave him disgusted with himself? Did he feel improperly assembled, a misshapen jumble of limbs and organs, each time he made a social mistake? Did Bruce raise someone just like him??
"You know I am, Father," Damian says quietly. A pained hitch escapes Bruce as Damian continues to drive a knife deeper in Bruce's very soul. "I- sometimes, I flap my hands, or I rock on my heels, or I… I'll repeat phrases, over and over, simply because it… brings comfort." Damian says the last part in a shameful whisper, leaning forward into his father's palm and closing his eyes.
"And you- you absolutely should, Damian. You should do what comforts you, or relieves stress and anxiety." Bruce can't take his eyes off Damian's face as he speaks, trying to see all that he's apparently missed. "Why would I want you to suffer?"
"Because it's uncivilized, Father!" Damian snaps, stumbling back a bit in frustration. "If you are not allowed to- to satisfy your baser urges, then why should I? I am just like you! If you needed Arkham, then in equal measure, so do I!"
Bruce's jaw drops open. Bugs are crawling under his skin again, he thinks distantly. He can feel himself detaching from this world, this conversation. Damian can't possibly mean…. no. There's no way. He's so small, had Bruce been that small when he'd gone to Arkham?…No, actually, Damian will be a teenager soon. Bruce had been 7, and then 8. But Damian is already so small, and he can't imagine sending his precious boy somewhere he would only hurt.
And, it's different, isn't it? Bruce needed it. Just him, right? Because it's only Bruce who was born so disfigured and unlovable, but Damian wasn't. Isn't. The family around him, right now, loves him so wholly in a way Bruce's parents just couldn't, with him. His brothers will accept Damian, will adjust and accommodate if it's for Damian. It's just when Bruce does it that it becomes too much. You can't be born broken and weird.
…How does he even begin to explain all that to his son? Who demands that he treat him as Bruce treats himself, for this?
Impossibly, he wants his dad. And it's sick, because he knows exactly what his father would say.
Behind him, Bruce hears the clicking of worn, black leather shoes against hardwood, a sound that instinctively snaps him back to his body, even as he feels unsteady in his skin.
"Master Bruce, there are nearby clinics. The ones in Gotham, by your own design, no longer have the facilities needed for young master Damian," he adds reproachfully.
Bruce is stuck. He's stuck in his body (wasn't he just not here?), frozen as he internally screams at even the thought of sending Damian away to be- to be tortured!
(If it's torture to Damian, was it torture to him…? No, but- No. His parents sent him, the first time. It's blasphemous to even think that.)
As Alfred continues, Bruce slowly turns his head, a statue cracking apart.
"We're not sending him anywhere, Alfred," Bruce says softly. He can't even look the man in the eyes. The Batman is on his knees before his butler, unable to even look up.
How pathetic.
"He himself wants it. Weren't you just saying how much you needed it?"
"No," Damian cuts in. "I want to be treated as Father treats himself. Father believes he needed Arkham, so I must need it too."
What is he even saying? How could such a thing even be possible, for them to be treated the same? Bruce is… ruined, disgusting, subhuman. He pretends better now, but his walls hide the same sorry excuse for a person that they always have. How could his darling boy ever be treated the same? No one could look at the two and deny Damian's compassion, so wholly separate from Bruce's… feeble attempt at personhood.
Bruce finally turns and stands to face Alfred, still hazy with shock but with a clear objective. "He's not going anywhere," he repeats firmly.
"It won't be easy, but it is necessary. He has already admitted to his training coming undone; soon, he will be unfit for polite society. It will be more of a burden to have him stay, master Bruce." There is sorrow and resolve in the old man's eyes, and it just makes Bruce hate the words out of the man's mouth even more.
"He's not a burden, he's my son!"
"No, he is not. You should know as well as I do that he is barely human for as long as this issue remains uncorrected!"
Bruce stumbles, feeling the words like a blow. With Bruce out of the way, Alfred can finally see Damian, who tenses under the cutting judgment in Alfred's face.
Bruce blankly observes Alfred's sudden coldness. Even if he stops Alfred from checking Damian into a clinic, Bruce knows the future awaiting his son:
Constant micro-managing to ensure Damian is unmoving and uncomfortable in his own home. Itchy clothes left on his bed because they are "proper," even though they can certainly afford the same clothes in softer textiles. Dishes prepared specifically to have the worst textures known to man. Tone policing and condescending social lessons designed to humiliate.
Bone-deep exhaustion from constantly masking, permanent isolation from knowing that your freest, calmest self is repulsive to even those who claim to love you.
Bruce can imagine this future so easily for Damian because it is just a mirrored reflection of his own past.
There is only one way to break the cycle, Bruce.
"Come, Damian, we shall pack your bags. You may choose which of the clinics you'd prefer."
Your son is so, so small, Bruce.
Damian, hesitant, takes his first step forward.
He will never be safe with him in your home, Bruce.
Damian takes another step towards Alfred, shaking off Tim's hand.
GET UP, BATMAN.
Batman lurches between his son Robin boy and Alfred, a possessive hand on Damian's shoulder.
"Alfred," he looks the butler in the eye. The man served him and his family as faithfully as he knew how for as long as Bruce has been alive. He has been loyal to both identities and has kept the family's secrets close to his own heart. But Bruce will not let him hurt his kids. Alfred will not look at them the same way he looks at Bruce.
He will not.
"You're fired."
Even for bats, the room is eerily silent. Batman's heart thuds against his ribcage, and for a moment, he's sure the bones will snap out of his chest and spill onto the floor. His throat closes as he stares Alfred down. The man's eyes are wide with shock, but his expression smooths out soon enough. He watches Batman — Bruce, now, under those dissecting eyes — with the same contemptuous look he always gives when he catches Bruce misbehaving.
Finally, Alfred comments quietly, "Very well, master Bruce. If my services are no longer needed, then I shall take my leave. I will be gone by daybreak." With one last bow, Alfred very carefully avoids the eyes of the rest of the family in the room. Eyes forward, chin up, back straight; that's how he taught Bruce to walk and that's how he walks now.
Knowing this is the right decision does not silence the screaming chasm in Bruce's chest. Even if for the wrong reasons, Alfred had known that hidden, vile part of him and stayed.
Bruce stares unseeingly at where Alfred had just been, past the click of Alfred's bedroom door closing. He wants to hide, he wants to fight, he wants to waste away into nothing. Alfred may have been repulsed, but he stayed.
What was Bruce going to do now? He is alone again, again, again. Always and again. His children would leave him one day. Damian would realize the difference between him and Bruce and leave. His children would see the squishy, weak, deformed thing behind Bruce's walls and leave.
There is movement behind him, perhaps voices, but Bruce is blind and deaf to it all. There is only a ringing hollow in his chest as his mind drags him through shorn snapshots of his past.
He is 8 and he is alone in an alleyway. He is 17 and he is alone in Siberia. He is 21 and he is alone in the ruins of Lazarus. He is 36 and he is alone in Ethiopia. He is a thousand years older in mind than body and he is alone.
There is- oh. There is something draping itself over his shoulders. No, not draping itself. It's Dick. Dick is- oh.
Dick is draping his jacket over Bruce's shoulders.
He looks down at the lapels. It's so ugly, he thinks fondly. One hand clutches at the lapels. He tilts his head up to meet Dick's warm and worried gaze. His hand is on Bruce's shoulder- when did that happen?
"Hey, B," and Dick's easy grin has Bruce relaxing his shoulders, just the tiniest bit.
"…I apologize for forcing your hand, Father," comes Damian's hesitant voice. He's still at Bruce's side, looking up at him.
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate through the fog in Bruce's mind. When his lips move, they don't feel like a part of him.
"You never have to apologize for what I do to keep you safe. I'm only sorry you weren't safe this whole time."
Damian studies the honesty in Bruce's face, then pushes himself in for a brief hug. If his voice is suspiciously thick when he manages a short, "Thank you, baba," then no one mentions it.
Jason huffs and throws himself into Bruce's chair at the dining table. Leaning back, he says, "I, for one, am glad he's gone."
"Jesus Christ, Jason!" Dick hisses, and Tim motions for him to cut it out.
Bruce purses his lips. The protectiveness that should leave him warm inside just raises his hackles. "No, it's fine," Bruce gets out, perhaps too forcefully. He's getting whiplash from his own mood swings, but he doesn't temper it. Can't, really. "Don't pity me, or coddle me just because of my condition, or my institutionalization. It was just another bad thing that happened, and I got up from it like I do everything else. I don't suddenly need kiddie gloves."
He's snapping at them, he knows he is, but. But, he still hears the echoes of doctors calling him stupid, making decisions for him like he couldn't be trusted with his own damn self.
He still feels chafed raw, a wound never healed, from the control Alfred holds held over his life.
Cass steps closer. Well, she jumps over the table and lands neatly in front of Bruce. "Not coddling. Accommodating."
He narrows his eyes, still aggravated by the suggestion. "I'm the same I've always been. I don't need accommodations."
She hums. "You accommodated me," she points out. "When I was still learning to speak, you and Barbara taught me sign, then English. So we could talk better."
"I'm the same I've always been," he repeats. "We talk well enough, now."
She crosses her arms and gives an impatient look.
The Batman does as he always does when faced with his teenage daughter's frown: he relents. "I- what do I even need accommodations for?" He barely manages not to spit the word out like poison. He's the fucking Batman, he's been functioning just fine all these years. What could he possibly need help with?
She gives a sweet smile at his surrender. "Later," she promises, and darts in to kiss his cheek.
Well. He can't exactly be mad at that. He huffs, but lets it go. At the very least, it's a promise there will be a later, with her at his side. Cas, who understands him inherently because she is the same, who wades through her own self-hatred with him. Who could choose to be an orphan, but instead chooses to be his beloved daughter.
He surveys the rest of his children.
Jason, who had hurt him and who Bruce had hurt, yet is still here. Who wants Bruce to be safe from someone he believes is Bruce's abuser, even at the cost of Alfred. Who allows Bruce the gift of being his father.
Tim, who wanted to believe Alfred had changed, but wanted more to ensure Bruce's mental well-being. Who saw value in Bruce even when he was at his lowest, who gives Bruce the privilege of caring for him.
Damian, who opened his heart to criticism and pain, and would have accepted it, too. Who has come so far from the perfect soldier he had been, who is now Bruce's precious son. Who allows Bruce the honor of guiding him to a gentler life.
Dick, his first Robin, his partner, his light, his son. Who wrapped his jacket around Bruce. Who swore an oath with him, who may leave but always comes back. Who chooses Bruce.
Maybe, he is not as alone as he'd thought. Maybe he's broken just enough cycles of pain and grief for them to be better than him. Maybe, instead of leaving him behind, alone, they're reaching back in their own dust. For him.
Bruce clutches the jacket tighter to himself. Feels his lips tick up in a smile (and this time it feels like him).
"Batburger?" he asks, holding up his car keys. "First one to the car rides shotgun."
He can't hold in his laugh at the subsequent scrambling as five vigilantes childishly wrestle and bite at each other to get a leg up.
He loves them, he trusts them, and he thinks, someday, he can be himself around them.
As he fondly watches their squabbles, he finds himself looking forward to it.
well, not quite. This is turning into a series. In the second part, the kids will actually learn how to identify and support Bruce through meltdowns, auditory processing issues, etc. It'll also deal with Bruce allowing himself to unmask, and the relief that comes with being loved even more for it. It'll be a bumpy road, but they'll overcome the chasm between them and end up in a better place, together, because of it. I'll still tag anyone who requests it in the next part, but it may be easier to subscribe to the ao3 series.
As always, constructive criticism is very welcome <3
Ok Clark and Bruce finally get together right? And Bruce, we'll he hasn't been with a ton of guys (lol) but hes always topped. Always. Its never been a question. And clark, he prefers to top but he likes bottoming time to time.
So the first few times they have sex, clark bottoms. All cool. It's amazing and hot and they're both satisfied, Bruce is a very good lover.
Well eventually, clark wants to test the waters. It's starts out with some more touches of Bruce's ass when they're fucking, maybe a 'accidental' brush against Bruce's hole. Bruce doesnt say anything but gets juuust a bit squirmy. Something only clark would notice.
Then, one time, Bruce is thrusting into clark, a nice steady pace while nipping and sucking at his throat and collarbones. And clark sneakily puts some lube on his fingers and starts playing with the others entrance, not going in.. yet.
Bruce stiffens slightly but doesnt say anything, hes noticed his lovers shifting attention and isnt sure how to feel. On one hand, hes never tried anything like that, but on the other, he wants to make his partner happy. He could at least try?
Once a finger actually starts to press into him, his confidence is draining. It feels weird, not pleasurable at all. Bruce just tries to focus on his cock and the wetness hes surrounded in.
One finger turns to two, still nothing. Well at least he can say he tried, but just when he was about to tell Clark to knock it off-
His whole body jerks forward and it feels like the air was taken out of him.
Clark simply smugly grins and encourages Bruce to keep fucking him.
Bruce ends up coming sooner than he'd like, the tightness around his cock and the fingers filling him prove to be too much. His eyes actually water when his peak is reached, and a soft whimper leaves his trembling body.
And that starts to become the standard when they have sex, bruce having something inside him. Nothing big, a few fingers maybe a plug but there is something. Bruce cant say he isnt enjoying this new sensation, but hes having to do a lot of reflecting on himself and his preferences.
But nothing compares to when they next have sex.
Clark knows this time hes going to try to top, or at least bring it up. He has a feeling that bruce is going to love it, maybe to the point where theyre dynamic shifts, although Clark doesn't really mind either way. He just wants to give his lover the best experience.
So when clark and bruce are able to sneak away to their bedroom, Clark takes the lead. Pushing Bruce onto the bed and climbing on top, giving him kisses and hickeys galore. Since their clothes are already off, its easy to grab the lube subtly. Only when his fingers are already pressed against the other body, does Clark pull back.
He can see the slight nerves on his lover's face, likely already guessing what Clark wants to do. But he never says no. Any other person in the world, Clark would need verbal support for trying something new. But he knows that would just freak Bruce out, and the man has no problem telling the Kryptonian if he doesn't like something. So Clark goes ahead and beings to stretch the awaiting hole.
He aims for that sweet spot, wanting his boyfriend to already be in that sweet headspace when its go time. One finger turns to two, then three. The most bruce has ever taken, and its showing. His hips are lightly bucking, his eyes are sparkling with unshead tears, and those pretty noises falling from his mouth. And its only going to get better.
So he pulls bruces legs to where theyre resting on his shoulders and leans in for a kiss. Pulling back just when he starts to press his cockhead into that tight hole.
The most beautiful thing he will ever witness will be bruces face as he takes his first cock. The tears finally fall, and his plush lips are shaped in a silent 'O' as his virgin hole is filled to the brim.
Clark knows that bruce isnt going to be topping after this.
Ok but like, maybe bruce gets hit with some kind of spell and for some reason he now has a cunt. And at first its fine, a little weird but fine. Until it starts to ache and leak.
It's just.. he needs something inside of him. Something to fill him up, something warm and thick. But none of the plethora of toys hes recently bought is doing anything for him! And hes so confused because before, he'd never even wanted to bottom, it just doesn't make sense.
Eventually, his best friend Clark notices somethings wrong, and it takes a while but bruce does cave and tell him what happened. He's just so empty, its such a frustrating feeling that hes almost crying.
Thankfully, Clark is a very good friend and offers his services.
Which leads them to now, after many many rounds, bruce can't even speak. The cock is so far inside him, its past his cervix by a inch or two. His brain is leaking out of his head. But it doesn't matter how overstimulated bruce is, he can not stop fucking himself back on that cock. It's been hours at this point, but its so delicious.
And his dear clark is estatic, not only is he getting to finally sleep with his long time crush, bruces cunt is divine. The feeling of his cockhead popping past bruces little cervix is so addicting. He's very glad bruce seems to be so cock drunk.
They both know that they can't go without this ever again.
And if bruce never tries to find a cure, thats no ones business.
top toxic trait of batman is actually making 100-slide powerpoints for things that could have been an email and sending emails for things that should really said in-person/elaborated on
batman locks the justice league in a conference room to present: “Causation or Correlation: Apocalypses of This Year And Every Time One Of You Idiots Have Quipped, “Could Be Worse!”” he has a laser pointer that he points directly into hal’s eyes no less than 11 times
Genuinely can not stop thinking of Dragon Clark hoarding Bruce. It’s taken over my life.
Imagine Bruce in sheer, wispy robes, draped in as much gold and jewels as Clark could find for him. He looks resplendent, lounging upon piles of expensive silks as he waits for Clark to return with more for him
And Clark does, because Bruce deserves nothing but the absolute best, as the heart of his hoard
Thinking about Bruce accepting that having children means there's no such thing as privacy and personal space. It doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing because his kids are somehow always nearby.
Just imagine Bruce desperately wanting to go to bed after patrol except a stretched out Dick Grayson is already there because "Your bed is way more comfortable, Bruce." He doesn't even live at the manor anymore. Bruce is trying to do a quick workout? Cass appears right by his side, ready to start. Going to the store to get a late night treat? Jason is already there because he apparently needed groceries at 10 P.M. and it just couldn't wait. Working peacefully in his office at work? Tim is walking through the door with files in one hand and a tablet in the other. Bruce decides to browse around a bookstore? Duke comes around the aisle with his arms full of books. Call him naive, but he really thought the bathroom would be an exception, except all his kids are trained vigilantes who know how to pick any lock. Now, he's sitting in a cold bath while listening to Damian complain about his recent mission.
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