Me thinks, if someone just killed the Joker and didn’t say anything, Bruce would be fine with it. Maybe not fine fine, but he's not gonna go crazy or anything
It’s not like Bruce is advocating for the Joker to stay alive. He just doesn’t want to be the person to kill him
And it’s not like it’s just the Batfamily that’s been personally victimized by the Joker. Almost everyone has, especially the citizens of Gotham
It’d be pretty selfish to kill the Joker solely based on what he’s done to your family specifically. Whichhhhh, I think, is another reason why he hasn’t. Batman, at his core, is not a selfish man. He is one of the most selfless people ever, and it is a huge part of his identity and how he continues to fight as Batman
I think he’d be devastated or angry that someone out there might have turned into a murderer for the Joker; he doesn't wish for anyone to go down that path. But, it's not like he's gonna mourn the Joker
He will mourn the man the Joker was before he went crazy, mourn who he could’ve become if only he had tried harder to rehabilitate him, but he will never mourn the man himself. He knows the Joker is evil, and he is very glad he’s gone forever
Maybe he wouldn’t outright celebrate, but he would certainly be in a better mood and happy that Gotham is one step closer to being a safer city for all the people living in it
I seen the ask about your thoughts on reverse batfamily and your feelings about Dick being considered Damians dad came up. Which reminded me you don't like it much at the perfect time. I made this post earlier today and want to ask if you can write a post about it yourself? Only if you want and have time though!
"We're leaving the manor for a while, B. We can't keep doing this."
The words ring in Damian's ears. He'd frozen, heart pounding, realising his siblings were leaving him. They'd promised they were family, and now they were leaving him. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, Richard was guiding him out, and his blood ran cold. They weren't leaving him. They intended to make him leave.
And he'd numbly followed, the revelation making his footsteps drag, until they'd stopped in the foyer, next to a pile of suitcases, and Damian had choked, seeing his own among them. The presumptions, the expectations, the demands, they made a fury build in Damian, growing, roiling, hissing, until it finally clawed its way out of him as they negotiated where they would all be staying.
That Timothy would reside with Todd as a temporary measure while his own home was under repairs, though neither of them seemed particularly enthused. That Cassandra would move to live with Barbara. That:
"Damian'll come with me, course."
Damian carefully, deliberately, took a step back, forcing Richard's hand to slip off his shoulder. "No," he says, coldly. "I will not."
They all frown at him. "Where you planning on sleeping then, pipsqueak?"
He doesn't scowl at Todd, but the force of his glare does make his 'brother' do a double take. "In my room. In my home. I am staying with Father."
Richard turns to face him properly, disbelief colouring his face. "Damian—"
"You are not my father, Richard."
More reactions. Raised brows, parted lips. Richard chuckles, and smiles. "I know, Dami. But—"
"Do you? I am no fool, I know you have all made presumptions based on the six months Father was lost in time, but I will take care to remember it is he who I call by that title, not you. He is the one with the right to dictate my life without consulting me, though he would not, unlike you, who did not even inform me you were planning to take me from my home."
The foyer is silent. Damian walks to the pile, and extracts his suitcases. He hears steps before the voice comes, cracking slightly:
"Damian, please do—"
"No, Richard!" He whips around, loosening the reins on his mounting rage. "Your reasons for leaving Father are superficial. They do not show his tedium, they show your weakness! Too weak to love someone because it isn't easy."
Richard falters. Seemingly so do the rest of his siblings. Damian continues, his tongue a sharpened knife, his words barbed.
"I know Father does not love 'right'. I know he expresses himself incorrectly, and that it hurts sometimes, to love him, but what does that matter, when I know how much he loves me?" Damian blinks back tears. "When I heard Pennyworth express how blessed we are that I did not inherit his condition, and Father thanked a God that left him forsaken at eight for the same thing?"
Timothy pales some, and Damian swallows.
"It is not easy, but it is not Herculean. It is not Sisyphean. I thought that you were capable of seeing past his pecularities, to his core, that you could see the intention behind his flawed means of expressing it?" Forcing eye contact with Cassandra makes her bite her lip, breaking it to look away from his penetrating gaze.
"Do not penalise me because you do not care to put in extra effort. Do not puppet me because you only care to pick fights, but don't bother to spend time with Father, and wonder why your relationship has collapsed? Do not make me your mouthpiece because you don't accept the ways he reaches out to you as valid methods of trying to initiate a relationship, and always assume the worst of him."
None of them say anything.
"You are my family. I love you all." The words slip from his tongue with a surprising ease, this once. It is in that regard he did indeed take after his father. It is rare such sentiments come easy to his lips, he prefers showcasing them through his actions. "But I will not abandon Father for you. Certainly not until he actually does something that merits such an abandonment."
This time, no one tries to stop him as he retrieves his luggage and walks back down the hall.
He goes upstairs first, and returns them to his room. Not quite stripped bare, but certainly stripped back. He seethes at the audacious behaviour.
Moving through the hallway, he finds other doors ajar, and sees his siblings' rooms similarly barren.
Looking into Richard's room is when he feels a palm slip over his shoulder. He doesn't turn, but doesn't shove off the touch either. "Forgiveness will be earned. Forgetting will not."
"I understand," Cassandra whispers. "I've...been struggling. Frustrated. I should not have agreed with brothers. Dad deserves more."
"No one deserves anything. But I dare say Father has done his best to earn it, no?"
Neither of them say anything more, but he waits for Cassandra to return her own bags, and when she kneels, arms open to him, he allows himself to eek out a small number of tears on her shoulder.
They go downstairs together, and take the longer way to avoid the empty foyer. When Cassandra opens the door, Damian clenches his fists seeing Father kneeling where they left him standing, and he dare say bawling may be the most apt descriptor for what he sees.
Cass' breath hitches, and she runs across the room, dropping to her knees by his side. Father startles, moving away, but she lunges after, pulling him into a hug before he can resist, and two large arms come around her, squeezing her likely to the point of pain, but she doesn't make a sound as apologies are sobbed into the hug, promises to do better that Damian does not bother contradicting, not now, as he taps Father's arm and is welcomed in too. Wet lips shakily press to his head, then to his sister's hair, and Father gasps for air between their heads.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers to himself, or to them, Damian isn't sure, but he hushes them anyway, and the three of them end up in a miserable silence punctuated only by tears from all three of them.
He's not sure how long they remain there, only that his knees hurt, when a hand smooths over his shoulder, running over his back to make its way over to Bruce's arm wrapped around him.
"Mum's taking the car to the garage, we're gonna stay for a little while, B," Duke says, lowering himself to kneel next to them. Damian is seized by an immense gratefulness for him too, even if he isn't sure how he came to know of today's fiasco.
They'll figure it out, Damian decides. Between the four of them, he's sure they will find a way to keep the household afloat.
Imagine if Damian gets curse but he doesn't know what the curse is and maybe the others think the effects already disappeared so they're not too worried.
And imagine Damian likes to draw bruces portrait on his sketchbook and not long after, Bruce dies :3
Or maybe he likes to draw his family AND Bruce's poteaits and the family end up fighting and drifting away from each other and Bruce finally dies :D
dick coming home to the manor instead of his apartment early in the morning after a month long mission in outer space. he showers before putting on clothes he left in his room the last time he stayed there. he stares at his childhood bed in the room he grew up in. he sees the old posters on the wall, the figures he left behind when he moved out. he stares and stares and stares before deciding he doesn’t want to be there.
he walks out of his room, walks a couple of doors down, before entering a room just as familiar as his own. he doesn’t knock, he’s never needed to, and looks at bruce’s sleeping form on his bed. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think twice, before crawling under the covers and wrapping his body against bruce’s warm one. he shoves his face into bruce’s neck, smelling the lotion and hair products that he’s used for years. a familiar smell, a smell that makes him drowsy, a smell that makes him feel safe.
he feels bruce shift a little before arms wrap around dick’s body, pulling him closer. sleep begins to call him and right before he answers it, he feels a kiss be pressed to his hair.
dick smiles; because it really doesn’t matter how old he is. he’ll always be bruce’s first baby, and he’ll always be welcomed into his father’s arms.
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.
He’s been watching the man pretend to be drunk for about half an hour now, making a fool of himself for all the Elite to see. He had two beautiful models on each arm hanging off of him to serve as eye candy—or, as he tried to make it seem, being used to support his unsteady weight.
So far, in the night, Wayne had ingested a couple shrimps, water, five glasses of different juices and not a single drop of alcohol. When the man started to act out, speak sluggishly and lose balance, Clark had become slightly worried that someone had spiked his drink, but there was not a single chemical tang in any of the drinks—alcohol, sedatives, poison or otherwise—that Clark’s nose picked up on.
It was a bit disconcerting, to say the least, to know that the man that just ten minutes ago walked face-first into a (very big and very visible) marble pillar was stone-cold sober.
That alone meant Clark didn’t have such a high opinion of Wayne; this whole charade of his of playing dumb could just be a desperate cry for attention, or a business move to be underestimated by opponents. Whatever. It wasn’t any of Clark’s business what a billionaire playboy with no serious scandals did to have fun.
What really caught his attention, on the other hand, was how calm and controlled the man was even while lying through his teeth. There was no acceleration in heartbeat, no hitch in breath, no spike in cortisol or adrenaline scent, not even the minute fluctuations in temperature humans usually experienced when embarrassed, excited, angry, or put on the spot.
Clark refuses to use his X-ray vision to check if the man’s blood really was flowing to his downtown are as he led the women around him to believe he was as excited as he said.
A woman—not either of the models he was with—touched his chest flirtatiously and Wayne gave her a lazy smile that probably looked devastatingly charming to anyone without microscopic vision. No reaction. One of the few males surrounding Wayne insulted him jokingly to his face. No reaction. Bruce’s son (Clark had no idea which one, and it felt wrong to take on Lois’ advice on referring to Wayne’s many children as numbers) immediately jabbed a finger in the man’s chest to (very aggressively) defend his father’s honor, positively assassinating the good mood in a ten meter ratio as Wayne had to talk his ward into not escalating the situation even more. No. Reaction.
Clark frowned faintly into his champagne flute. It was kind of very creepy how even his heart was steady, Clark had honestly never seen such an unwavering blood flow in a human, not even Lex Luthor could pull off such bullshit without even the slightest change in his body as a giveaway.
Clark looked away after a while, suddenly uncomfortable with how long he’d been observing the man. He could almost hear Batman’s voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop sticking his nose in Gotham’s business. And he would comply to his friend’s wishes.
"I need to warn you, sir. Adopting a child over the age of three means that he may never really see you as his father. You need to be ready to accept that you may only ever be a stand-in in his eyes."
Bruce couldn't stop thinking about the social worker's parting words as they had left the courthouse. And then for a while after they'd returned to the manor. Alfred was slicing assorted fruit in the kitchen in a bid to get their new charge to eat something, and Dick was up in his new room unpacking his bags, but Bruce was mentally going over and over those words.
Father? Did that word apply to him now? Did… did he even want to be called that? He was sure he wanted to take in and raise Dick, but he'd never considered what Dick would call him.
Bruce? Maybe? He guessed it would be up to Dick.
He knew that after his own parents had passed, he'd never called another adult 'mom' or 'dad', but that was because he'd been raised by Alfred.
Speaking of which…
"Hey, Alfred?"
The butler didn't look away from the bowl he was arranging for Dick. "Yes, Master Bruce? Something on your mind?"
"I was just wondering… did it ever bother you? That you raised a kid who never ended up referring to you as their father?"
Alfred stilled. He blinked and pushed the bowl aside so he could lean against the counter. "Master Bruce," he thought for a second, wanting to pick his words carefully. "In short, no. It never bothered me. Because I wasn't your father. But that didn't mean we weren't, if I may be so bold, family. I knew that you saw me as a parental figure, someone you could trust if you needed help or advice, and I knew that it didn't matter to me what you called me. It wouldn't change a thing. I wasn't going to let how you, a child, saw me dictate how I viewed our relationship."
Yyyyy
Bruce never forced, encouraged, or even suggested that Dick call him by anything other than Bruce. In fact, he'd forgotten all about the conversation pretty quickly as parenting, running a multi-billion dollar business, and vigilantism tended to take up a lot of his time. It wasn't until one night, a few years after he'd adopted his son that he even recalled it.
"Dad?"
Bruce looked up from his paperwork at the sound of the hoarse, quiet voice. Dick was standing in his home office doorway, drowsy, wrapped in a blanket, and pale.
"You don't look so good, bud." He put his pen down and hurried over to the twelve year old and felt his forehead.
"Can we not go out tonight? Please?"
"Yeah, no worries there. You're going back to bed. Let's go."
"Okay." Dick allowed himself to be guided back to his room, where he crawled back in bed and closed his eyes tight.
"I'll be back with some water, alright? And I'll have Alfred make you soup. It looks like you've caught that bug that's been going around. Barry says it knocked Wally out for a full day, but with that boy's metabolism, I really don't know how long this will take to run its course."
"Mn, soup sounds good." Dick mumbled into his pillow.
Bruce smiled softly as he was able to watch Dick actually fall asleep mid-conversation. He pulled another blanket up over the sleeping mound of child on the bed and tucked him in.
Down in the kitchen, he found Alfred just getting out the dishes he would need to prepare dinner.
"Hey, Alfred. You haven't gotten started yet, I hope?"
The butler shook his head. "Not yet. I was just about to make spaghetti, unless you wanted something else?"
Bruce nodded, walking past to grab one of the colorful, plastic cups they had gotten Dick to help him feel more at home. "Dick caught Wally's cold. He's asleep now, but I told him you'd make him… um,"
Something clicked.
He was replaying the conversation mentally so he could relay anything important to the one who had more experience dealing with sick kids, and something Dick had said…
"He… he called me 'Dad'."
The cup overflowed and his wet hand snapped him back to the present. Quickly, he dumped some of the water out and grabbed a dishrag to dry off the outside of the cup.
"Master Bruce?"
Bruce didn't know what the right reaction was, but he found himself staring incredulously at the water. He'd always told himself that being Dick's guardian was enough. He'd had a father, and that father wasn't Bruce.
He'd known that. He'd never considered…
His chest swelled as he tried to wrap his head around the overwhelming feelings that had just hit him like a truck.
"He called me 'Dad.'" Bruce whispered again.
He smiled, only just realizing that the cup in his hands was blurry.
Alfred simply smiled with him and drew the man into a tight hug.
[ID: several drawings of Bruce Wayne, all focused on him getting some much needed sleep. Going left to right, top to bottom, the first drawing is Bruce laying down with Ace the Bathound. Pillows are scattered behind Bruce as Ace lays on the blanket. If Bruce is cold is unclear as he has his arms outstretched, holding Ace at a bit of a distance as the dog has its backlegs against his waist.
The second drawing is him with Alfred the Cat. Bruce is partially propped up by a pile of pillows and has scattered bandages on his arms alongside them being heavily bruised, and his face has a small scrape. Alfred sits on his chest and is purring loudly. In the third drawing, Bruce is very cozy looking while still propped up. He's wrapped up in a blanket up to his face and is drooling.
In the fourth drawing, Bruce is laying down and has his arm sandwiched between two pillows, including the one he's using. He's smiling peacefully. In the fifth drawing, he's just a little blanket monster—he's entirely covered in a cocoon of blankets and his face is in shadows, with only two white eye slits being visible. END ID
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
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’ve been thinking a lot about Dick’s and Bruce’s relationship. Especially about Dick’s possessiveness over Bruce.
Feel free to ignore this though if you don’t feel like answering this.
What about a Dick that gets de-aged or even better a Dick that gets switched with his past self. No matter how it happens just-started-out-as-Nightwing Dick is now in the present. He is currently on his rough patch with Bruce and is suddenly dropped into a future where he has to share his Dad’s Bruce’s attention with others.
A 17yo Dick who thinks of Bruce as to overbearing is suddenly with a Bruce that barely has any time for him. At least in comparison to what Dick is used to.
After getting past the initial shock he thinks it’s great and that he now has his peace from Bruce. Only to notice how Bruce is laughing with the other kids and how their friends come over and also hang out with Bruce.
Because none of them were only told bad things about Bruce by him. God Dick is so stupid he could have had this. Why is he so goddam selfish
And suddenly Dick is seething with jealousy. It practically drips from his body. That is HIS Bruce.
But when he tries to start doing an activity with Bruce the man brushes. Him. Off.
“Sorry chum, but It’s the first Thursday of the month and I always have book club with Jayson then”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time, Tim asked me to a True Crime Show Marathon”
“I apologize but today is my weekly practice in physical combat with Kidflash. He asked for a depleted training plan”
And while 17yo Dick is struggling with all of this older Dick in the past is just enjoying having all of his Dad’s attention for the first time in YEARS while the TeenTitans and his Dad are heavily confused by his antics
Aha! Found it! I didn't mean to ignore you, I swear 😶🌫️
"Dick? Hold out your arm for me?" Dick blinks, tuning back into the real world, and finally forces him out of the haze he'd happily settled into in Bruce's arm. On autopilot, he obeys, offering his arm, but frowns when Bruce wraps a tourniquet around it. "Thank you, chum," he mutters, filling two vials with blood. Dick watches it happen, confusion penetrating the calm that had settled over him.
"Bruce!"
Bruce lifts a hand, signalling his location, and Dick frowns harder when J'onn and Zatanna round the corner, approaching with masked caution.
"Bruce. I'm myself."
"I know, chum." He slings an arm around Dick to keep him up as he moves over to the lab, and preps a slide of his blood. "There's just some peculiarities we want to figure out."
"He is," J'onn confirms, suddenly closer.
"No spells," Zatanna adds, making to poke him. Dick knocks her hand away with a scowl.
"His consciousness is not his." Dick blanches, sending mental claxons towards J'onn. Don't tell him, let him keep pretending— "The mind currently in this form is Richard Grayson from nearly ten years in the future."
Bruce's brow dips. "Dick." Oh great. A tone. "Why not tell me?"
"Because that doesn't matter," he insists. "I'm me. And you're you. And I want to spend time with my dad."
Bruce's breath hitches. Zatanna and J'onn head out just as quickly as they came, even if snickers linger after their departure, and Dick shifts uncomfortably.
"Dick, I— Please tell me I'm not..." Bruce falters, looking crushed, and Dick shakes his head.
"No! No, B, I just. You're busy, a lot of the time, in my time. I just want to make the most of right now. Please."
Bruce watches him for a moment, then melts, and it kicks Dick in the chest the same way it did when Bruce treated him like a dream when he snuck into his room this morning (with the intention of telling him what happened, only to see him lying there, the perfect spot to lie under his arm, and realise he could do that) and cuddled him like they always used to do. Before Dick grew up. Before Bruce grew up too.
"Okay. We'll go to the den."
Hesitantly, oh so carefully, Bruce leans in, and presses his lips to Dick's head. Dick leans into the touch, pretends not to see Bruce hold back tears, and stifles his own.
He'll enjoy this, for however long it lasts. However long he gets to live in a time where he was an only child, and Bruce had no pulls to his attention except maybe the dog. When Bruce was his, and Dick was his, and even when Bruce thinks Dick is filled with hormonal rage and teen angst, still carries him around all morning for cuddles. When it was just them.
And maybe...maybe he'll pull on his old suit. Maybe the dynamic duo can fly one last time.
He'll make the most of this time in a way he didn't last time, even if he loves his siblings.
Dick hates his siblings. He's hated this entire day. And now it's dinner, and he's walked into the dining room, and watched the little one and the girl one slide into the seats on either side of the head of the table, keeping Bruce for themselves.
"Move." The girl rolls her eyes, and the little one scoffs. "Move!" He yells, and the room goes silent.
Bruce frowns at him. He shouldn't be frowning at Dick, he should be frowning at these parasites on his attention. "Dick," he admonishes.
"Make them move. I'm not doing this— I'm not putting up with this anymore. Make. Them. Move. Bruce."
The little one frowns. "Grayson—"
"Wayne," he snaps. He's lying. His name isn't Wayne, that's the name of his future self, he'd had a panic attack seeing the adoption certificate framed on the wall this morning, but now there is a monster in his chest, writhing and possessive and demanding he gets rid of the intruders, and when it supplies the name he grasps it with both hands.
"My name. Is. Wayne. You brat."
"Dick!" Bruce shouts, a hand held out to the little one, who's fallen silent, like he deserves any comfort. He stole Dick's dad Bruce. "What has gotten into you?"
"Do you love them more than me?" He gasps, and feels the mortifying heat of tears as they slide down his cheeks. Bruce startles, mouth slightly open, the rest of the room is staring, but the dam is broken and he can't stop the barrage of words. "I-I know I was rude, and contrary, and we fought, but I didn't want you to replace me! And— and you've been busy all day and you don't have time for me and all you ever do is spend time with them!"
He crying properly now, Bruce's striken face is blurry through his tears, and he's never felt more childish than when he wraps his arms around himself like a facsimile of a hug and sobs.
"You said good morning, but you didn't kiss my head, and you didn't try to hug me, and you don't cut my bacon for me anymore, and you didn't ask me if I wanted to do my homework with you while you worked on W.E. and you took him to get milkshakes after lunch not me and you didn't try to sneak cookies from Alfred with me!"
The room is deadly silent, so his wet, shuddering inhale is the loudest thing in the room.
"Is it because they call you 'Dad'?" He asks, and Bruce makes a noise like he got punched. "'Cause he calls you Father and she says Dad and he calls you Pops even if it sounds sarcastic but you spend time with them and not me so is that it? Do— Do I need to? I'll do it, B, please, just— Just be my Bruce again, please!"
He's sobbing now, and his chest aches, and it hurts to breathe, but then Bruce's chair is screeching back and he's being tackled and yanked into a hug and he wraps all his limbs around him and bawls into his chest like he hasn't since he was ten, but Bruce just clutches him close, hushing him gently, painfully gentle hands carding through his hair.
"Please, please B— Dad—"
"Hey, hey, Dickie-baby, you don't need to call me Dad."
"You promise?" He moans, and lips press firmly into his hair.
"I promise, chum. I'm sorry." Dick burrows close, and Bruce starts walking and Dick has no idea where they're going but Bruce is mumbling apologies into his hair like he'll never stop but his arms are firm around him and that kind of makes it feel like it will all be okay.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Dick’s and Bruce’s relationship. Especially about Dick’s possessiveness over Bruce.
Feel free to ignore this though if you don’t feel like answering this.
What about a Dick that gets de-aged or even better a Dick that gets switched with his past self. No matter how it happens just-started-out-as-Nightwing Dick is now in the present. He is currently on his rough patch with Bruce and is suddenly dropped into a future where he has to share his Dad’s Bruce’s attention with others.
A 17yo Dick who thinks of Bruce as to overbearing is suddenly with a Bruce that barely has any time for him. At least in comparison to what Dick is used to.
After getting past the initial shock he thinks it’s great and that he now has his peace from Bruce. Only to notice how Bruce is laughing with the other kids and how their friends come over and also hang out with Bruce.
Because none of them were only told bad things about Bruce by him. God Dick is so stupid he could have had this. Why is he so goddam selfish
And suddenly Dick is seething with jealousy. It practically drips from his body. That is HIS Bruce.
But when he tries to start doing an activity with Bruce the man brushes. Him. Off.
“Sorry chum, but It’s the first Thursday of the month and I always have book club with Jayson then”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time, Tim asked me to a True Crime Show Marathon”
“I apologize but today is my weekly practice in physical combat with Kidflash. He asked for a depleted training plan”
And while 17yo Dick is struggling with all of this older Dick in the past is just enjoying having all of his Dad’s attention for the first time in YEARS while the TeenTitans and his Dad are heavily confused by his antics
Aha! Found it! I didn't mean to ignore you, I swear 😶🌫️
"Dick? Hold out your arm for me?" Dick blinks, tuning back into the real world, and finally forces him out of the haze he'd happily settled into in Bruce's arm. On autopilot, he obeys, offering his arm, but frowns when Bruce wraps a tourniquet around it. "Thank you, chum," he mutters, filling two vials with blood. Dick watches it happen, confusion penetrating the calm that had settled over him.
"Bruce!"
Bruce lifts a hand, signalling his location, and Dick frowns harder when J'onn and Zatanna round the corner, approaching with masked caution.
"Bruce. I'm myself."
"I know, chum." He slings an arm around Dick to keep him up as he moves over to the lab, and preps a slide of his blood. "There's just some peculiarities we want to figure out."
"He is," J'onn confirms, suddenly closer.
"No spells," Zatanna adds, making to poke him. Dick knocks her hand away with a scowl.
"His consciousness is not his." Dick blanches, sending mental claxons towards J'onn. Don't tell him, let him keep pretending— "The mind currently in this form is Richard Grayson from nearly ten years in the future."
Bruce's brow dips. "Dick." Oh great. A tone. "Why not tell me?"
"Because that doesn't matter," he insists. "I'm me. And you're you. And I want to spend time with my dad."
Bruce's breath hitches. Zatanna and J'onn head out just as quickly as they came, even if snickers linger after their departure, and Dick shifts uncomfortably.
"Dick, I— Please tell me I'm not..." Bruce falters, looking crushed, and Dick shakes his head.
"No! No, B, I just. You're busy, a lot of the time, in my time. I just want to make the most of right now. Please."
Bruce watches him for a moment, then melts, and it kicks Dick in the chest the same way it did when Bruce treated him like a dream when he snuck into his room this morning (with the intention of telling him what happened, only to see him lying there, the perfect spot to lie under his arm, and realise he could do that) and cuddled him like they always used to do. Before Dick grew up. Before Bruce grew up too.
"Okay. We'll go to the den."
Hesitantly, oh so carefully, Bruce leans in, and presses his lips to Dick's head. Dick leans into the touch, pretends not to see Bruce hold back tears, and stifles his own.
He'll enjoy this, for however long it lasts. However long he gets to live in a time where he was an only child, and Bruce had no pulls to his attention except maybe the dog. When Bruce was his, and Dick was his, and even when Bruce thinks Dick is filled with hormonal rage and teen angst, still carries him around all morning for cuddles. When it was just them.
And maybe...maybe he'll pull on his old suit. Maybe the dynamic duo can fly one last time.
He'll make the most of this time in a way he didn't last time, even if he loves his siblings.
Dick hates his siblings. He's hated this entire day. And now it's dinner, and he's walked into the dining room, and watched the little one and the girl one slide into the seats on either side of the head of the table, keeping Bruce for themselves.
"Move." The girl rolls her eyes, and the little one scoffs. "Move!" He yells, and the room goes silent.
Bruce frowns at him. He shouldn't be frowning at Dick, he should be frowning at these parasites on his attention. "Dick," he admonishes.
"Make them move. I'm not doing this— I'm not putting up with this anymore. Make. Them. Move. Bruce."
The little one frowns. "Grayson—"
"Wayne," he snaps. He's lying. His name isn't Wayne, that's the name of his future self, he'd had a panic attack seeing the adoption certificate framed on the wall this morning, but now there is a monster in his chest, writhing and possessive and demanding he gets rid of the intruders, and when it supplies the name he grasps it with both hands.
"My name. Is. Wayne. You brat."
"Dick!" Bruce shouts, a hand held out to the little one, who's fallen silent, like he deserves any comfort. He stole Dick's dad Bruce. "What has gotten into you?"
"Do you love them more than me?" He gasps, and feels the mortifying heat of tears as they slide down his cheeks. Bruce startles, mouth slightly open, the rest of the room is staring, but the dam is broken and he can't stop the barrage of words. "I-I know I was rude, and contrary, and we fought, but I didn't want you to replace me! And— and you've been busy all day and you don't have time for me and all you ever do is spend time with them!"
He crying properly now, Bruce's striken face is blurry through his tears, and he's never felt more childish than when he wraps his arms around himself like a facsimile of a hug and sobs.
"You said good morning, but you didn't kiss my head, and you didn't try to hug me, and you don't cut my bacon for me anymore, and you didn't ask me if I wanted to do my homework with you while you worked on W.E. and you took him to get milkshakes after lunch not me and you didn't try to sneak cookies from Alfred with me!"
The room is deadly silent, so his wet, shuddering inhale is the loudest thing in the room.
"Is it because they call you 'Dad'?" He asks, and Bruce makes a noise like he got punched. "'Cause he calls you Father and she says Dad and he calls you Pops even if it sounds sarcastic but you spend time with them and not me so is that it? Do— Do I need to? I'll do it, B, please, just— Just be my Bruce again, please!"
He's sobbing now, and his chest aches, and it hurts to breathe, but then Bruce's chair is screeching back and he's being tackled and yanked into a hug and he wraps all his limbs around him and bawls into his chest like he hasn't since he was ten, but Bruce just clutches him close, hushing him gently, painfully gentle hands carding through his hair.
"Please, please B— Dad—"
"Hey, hey, Dickie-baby, you don't need to call me Dad."
"You promise?" He moans, and lips press firmly into his hair.
"I promise, chum. I'm sorry." Dick burrows close, and Bruce starts walking and Dick has no idea where they're going but Bruce is mumbling apologies into his hair like he'll never stop but his arms are firm around him and that kind of makes it feel like it will all be okay.
The Dicks switching back and young Dick is just so happy that he is an only child again. Suddenly every time Bruce is all up in his business doesn't feel so offending anymore. In fact he delights in it. Yes they still get into fights but now Dick wants to resolve those fights immediately out of fear of him suddenly gaining a sibling in the time he was away.
The Titans are shocked. Nightwing is suddenly not only on good terms with Batman, but also crazy possessive (not that he wasn't before, he just had it more under control) Now just requesting some guidance from Batman earned them a death glare. This even extends to Batman offering them any form of friendly gestures. Which he does a lot since he is over at Titans tower quite frequently to hang out with Nightwing.
Now imagine Wally and Dick sparring while Bruce observes. After Dick wins he is practically preening in front of his Dad. And while Bruce gives him plenty of praise he also offers to show Wally some moves:
Wally: *not thinking* You woukd do that? I would lo-
Dick: *staring at Wally from behind Bruce's back as though he was gonna murder him*
Wally: *gaining a sense of self preservation* loathe that. I would loath that. It would be to embarrassing and I'd rather work on this by myself.
So let me give you an idea. Bruce and Dick are deaged to the age they were when their parents died . And nobody can tell them apart. They spent hours together before anyone realized something had happened to them, and now they both wear masks, and nobody can tell who's who, not even Alfred
There's also angst because Alfred always said Bruce was a difficult child, while Bruce always said Dick was an angel when he took him.
I had too much fun on this one... So it's kinda long
I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING
Dick is elated. Weirdly enough, even if he retains all his memories, his emotions and behavior are those of a child. But that's not the exciting thing. What has Dick over the moon is the tiny Bruce who's trying to get out of his Batman suit.
He's so tiny. Shouldn't he be older? He's so tiny! And so soft! And -!! He's mumbling something between Dick's hands.
Both his cheeks are squeezed between the acrobat's hands. "Diiiiiick!!" He's whining. His mini dad is whining. OMG HE'S SO CUTE! "Diiiiiick!!"
He let go with a chuckle. Be serious. You need to check it out. Focus, Robin!
"Who am I?" He points his own chest with a finger.
Bruce follows the finger before beaming "My son!"
Dick tackles him. And they're both laughing until they're tired and hungry and somewhat upset that nobody has looked for them.
They steal a pair of Damian's and Tim's spare clean clothes and laugh at each other swimming on them.
Bruce tries to act like the responsible one. He's still the oldest, anyway. So Dick accepts the offered hand, and lets him guide up the stairs.
He has to cover his grin whenever Bruce's tiny legs struggle to get up the next stair. Finally, he grows tired and one swift move, he lifts him over his shoulders.
Now, Dick isn't much taller than his tiny dad, but he can jump high, so Bruce can't really complain about the situation.
Jason's glass crashes on the floor when they cross the kitchen arch.
Bruce laughs, kicking his feet over Dick's shoulders, and points at him "Jaylad broke the glass!"
Dick is covering his face with both hands. Don't say he's adorable. Don't say he's adorable!
"What the fuck?"
Dick gasps and lifts his arms, trying to cover Bruce's ears. His arms too short to reach "BAD WORD!" He finally decides best and pulls Bruce down. His father looks at him with a flat expression.
"He always curses, chum" The deadpan on the soft features makes Dick shriek and crouch on the ground.
"Ok, WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Dick can hear his father sigh, and he can imagine the cuteness and he's about to implode, please someone needs to stop this menace to society-!!
"A spell"
"A spell?"
"Mhm."
"... Aaaaand?"
Dick looks up. Bruce has to practically turn his neck at 90 degrees to look up at Jason. Nope. Not yet. Still adorable. Dick hides his face again.
"Well. We are small. Younger. Duh"
He hears Jason's splutter "The disrespect?! Listen, you night critter-!"
"I am your father! You should respect ME!!"
"What- Wa- wait. What?!"
"Mhm."
"YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING?!"
"We should contact Zee"
Dick jumps to his feet. "But taaaati! I wanted to explore the manor"
Bruce contemplates as long as a second and nods "Ok"
"Wait, WOAH NO!"
Both kids turn to Jason. And Dick can see him shudder. "But Jaylad" Bruce blinks at his brother "I wanna explore the manor"
Dick realized a bit ago how alike they were. That must be what's making Jason so uncomfortable. "Yes, Little Wing! We wanna explore!"
"Ok, you guys are FREAKING me out!"
Dick beams at the "ok" and yells a laugh as he picks Bruce under his arm and climbs them both over the fridge.
"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! NO! Down, you menace! Let go of- of-"
"Our dad!"
"Your dad"
The kids laugh. Bruce lets himself be dragged up and can't help the "You're so strong for a 8 year old"
Dick's chest fills with pride. "I used to grab my other dad in the air, you know?"
And then they both fall silent. Dick's lip is trembling and Bruce's eyes start to moist.
"Noooooo. No, no, no." Jason flaps his arms around under them "None of that, no crying. We don't want the rest of the family to go around sending me back to the grave because I hurt our kiddified oldest"
Dick smiles and sniffles the snot threatening to get out "Coward"
"Coward" Bruce parrots
"... God. Just... Get down, would you?" They both shake their heads. "Why did you even came to-? Hey! Ain't you hungry?"
Bruce stomach betrays them. "Sorry" he whispers
"I can cook. You know I can cook" They exchange glances between them. "Get down and I'll cook you something amazing!"
Dick is drumming over his filled belly while Bruce finishes his lasagna.
"Can we explore now?" Bruce pauses at Dick's words and looks up towards Jason, who was sneaking pictures of the duo.
"I- uh. Sure. No, wait-!"
"Yay!"
"No take backs!"
"Finish quickly!"
"Not so quickly! Chew your food! God fucking dammit where are the others? They replied almost an hour ago"
Bruce stuffs his cheeks with his food, and Dick has to close his eyes to contain the cuteness aggression that makes his fingers itch.
"I mfhed!"
"Swallow your food, don't be nasty"
Bruce swallows with a loud gulp that makes his whole body move along it. And he opens his mouth for air "I finished!"
Dick jumps to the ground. "Let's go, let's go!"
"Thank you for the food, son!" Bruce waves as he's pulled away by his hand.
Jason is momentarily baffled before blinking and running behind the pair "Wait, where do you think you're going on your own!?"
When Tim arrives, he's greeted with a Jason that looks both deeply entertained and deadly tired at the same time.
The others are in the living room. Stephanie is sitting on the floor grabbing her chin, with narrowed eyes and her head slightly tilted to the side. Cass is behind her, smiling.
In front of them, the pair of kids stand with domino masks covering their eyes. Both smirking and giggling.
"You also have to guess" Jason pushes him forward.
"Guess...?"
"Who's dad" Cass greets him.
Tim looks back at Jason "Didn't you say they regressed to... You know?" He points with his head
Jason rolls his eyes "That's what THEY said. Not so sure if I should believe in this pair of menaces..."
"Then... The shorter is Dick. Since he's the youngest?"
"Wait!" Stephanie hurries to cover the kids mouths. "Don't say anything until Dami arrives" she lets go ", we want to see who's the winner"
Tim nods. "The tall is dad"
"Second that" Stephanie crosses her arms with a smile.
"Tiny one is dad"
"... Fuck"
"Fuck"
"Cass!!"
She shrugs "I'm also playing"
"Ugh! So we lost"
"... Damian better fails or I swear-"
"Baba is the shortest one"
"Oh, come on!!"
"HOW?!"
Damian shrugs and sits behind Bruce, hugging him. Dick struggles to push him away. "He's my baba"
"Kill Bruce Wayne with hammers" they say. Well what if actually did that, huh? What then?
His kids find him.
Broken, bleeding...breathing.
"Dad!"
"Father!"
First aid kits are ripped out of utility belts, they race to fix him. A tinny voice coming out of a phone speaker.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
A shuddering inhale. A flattened finger pressing down on the red button. The screen goes dark.
"B, no, don't give up—"
"Sh-hh. Waiting for you. No...not much longer."
"Bruce—"
"Love you." Slowly, his arm slides across the red-soaked concrete. His shoulder socket gapes, wet flesh torn out of the way to reveal shattered bone. His forearm moves separately, layers of skin the only thing dragging it along to follow the rest.
It twitches uselessly on the floor. He can't lift it.
A smaller hand takes his, cradling the flattened, abused, missing fingerd in a gentle palm. He offers a bloody smile of split lips and missing teeth.
"L-love. You."
"I love you too. Please, just—"
"Family. Promise."
"Yes, I promise we'll stick together this time, but Bruce—"
"Good. P-proud. L-love you. All of you..."
"Bruce— no no no no no no no please no!"
Trembling hands grasp a still face, lips parted with the ghost of a final breath. His skull crumples under their touch, collapsing inwards between their hands.
