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Bruce also does the parent thing whilst texting btw.

Bruce: he is here.

Tim: who?

Tim: hello?

Tim: WHO IS HERE? SHOULD I CHANGE INTO RED ROBIN OR NOT?

(Jason came for dinner)

Bruce: It is over.

Dick: what is over? Is the world over?

Dick: Bruce!?

(The league meeting ended)

Bruce: it has all gone to plan.

Clark: uh what?

Clark: Batman? Bruce Wayne? Bruce!?

Clark: please don't tell me you've gone evil and are planning to take over the world :(

(Clarks surprise birthday party on the watchtower was all set up)

Bonus, where daimian who had never used a phone before in his life, also texts like bruce:

Damian: Do not come home

Jason: ...

Jason: why?

Damian: Do not come home.

(He wanted to meet up with Jason on patrol)

not a text, a call !

in which you leave gotham for a not-so-long trip, and a deeply anxious jason tries to hide how much he hates letting you out of his sight, only to refuse to let you go for days the second you return.

Jason had been standing by the counter for twenty minutes, ostensibly making coffee he wasn't drinking, his eyes fixed on the open suitcase lying on the bed down the hall. Every clothes hanger that clicked, every zipper pulled, every small, mundane action of your packing seemed to strike a raw nerve he was trying very hard to cover up behind a posture of bored indifference.

He came down the hallway with that quiet, heavy footed tread of his, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, shoulders broad and hunched just enough to betray the tension coiled in his neck.

"You really need three jackets?" he asked, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely lacking its usual casual bite. He gestured toward the bag with a sharp tilt of his chin. "It’s a trip, not an expedition to the arctic. You’re overpacking"

You paused, looking up from the bag where you were trying to fit the last few essentials. A soft, knowing smile tugged at your lips at the sheer transparency of his irritation. "It's cold where I'm going, Jay," you answered gently, folding the third jacket smaller to save space. "And knowing you, if I get a cold while I'm away, I'll never hear the end of it."

"I'm serious," he grumbled, refusing to look directly at you, though his gaze tracked your every move through his dark lashes. He stepped fully into the room, crossing over to the bed. Without asking, his large hands reached down to refold a sweater you had just set down. He did it meticulously, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles with unnecessary focus, just to have something to do with his hands. "Flights get delayed. Luggage gets lost. Half the places out there aren’t safe anyway, and you’re going to be carrying all this weight around by yourself."

"I can handle my own luggage, big guy," you replied softly, placing a hand over his busy ones to stop their restless movement. "I've planned out the route, the hotel is in a good area, and it's only a few days. It's going to go by fast."

"A few days is too long," Jason muttered under his breath, his hands coming to a halt under yours, though he didn't pull away.

As you reached down to pack a pair of shoes, his hand caught your wrist. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his grip was absolute, grounding, heavy, and reluctant. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist once, measuring the steady pulse there, before he let out a short, harsh breath through his nose.

"Call me when you land," he commanded softly, the roughness in his voice slipping into something fiercely protective. "Not a text. A call. I don't care what time it is over there. You don't hit the pavement until I know you're off the plane."

"I will," you promised, turning your wrist in his grip so you could press your fingers against his palm. "First thing after I clear customs, I'm calling you. I swear."

He pulled you in then, sudden and unprompted, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into the crook of your neck. The embrace was almost suffocating, broad chest pressed solid against yours, his heart thumping a heavy, steady rhythm. For a man who spent half his life pretending he didn't care about anything, the way he held you right before you left was always a full body confession. He didn't say I'll miss you. He just held on until the very last second, his breathing warm and ragged against your skin, letting you carry the weight of his anxiety with you.

Three days later, the return trip felt like a haze of jetlag and noise, but the moment you stepped into the arrival terminal, the atmosphere shifted.

Jason was standing near the edge of the crowd, away from the main flow of traffic, trying, and failing, to look like a regular guy waiting for a flight. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark leather jacket, his eyes darting methodically over the faces coming through the gates. The moment his eyes landed on you, the tight, rigid set of his jaw visibly melted.

He didn't wait for you to drag your bag over. He closed the distance between you in four long, urgent strides.

Before you could even speak his name, he had hauled you straight off your feet, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and burying his face deep into your hair. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, taking in the familiar scent of you beneath the stale airport air, and held you suspended for several seconds just to prove to himself that you were actually there, solid and real in his arms.

"You took your sweet time" he muttered into your shoulder, his voice thick and rough. When he finally set you down, he didn't let go. One hand stayed clamped firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers threaded through your hair, while his thumb stroked your cheek bone with an intensity that bordered on fierce. His dark eyes searched your face, scanning every detail as if looking for any sign that the world had bruised you while you were out of his sight.

"Come on," he grunted, taking your heavy bag in his free hand without a second thought, while his other hand immediately slid down to interlock his fingers tightly with yours. "Let's get out of here."

The first night back, the clinginess wasn't loud, but it was absolute.

Jason didn't leave your side. If you went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, you’d turn around to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching you with quiet, hawkish intensity. If you sat on the sofa, he was right next to you, not just near you, but pressed up against your side, one heavy arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his side so tightly that your head rested against his chest.

By the second afternoon, the pattern hadn't broken; if anything, he’d settled deeper into it.

You were sitting on the couch trying to read, but Jason had effectively neutralized any possibility of productivity. He was lying down with his long frame stretched out across the cushions, his head resting squarely in your lap. One of his large hands was resting on your knee, his fingers lazily tracing random patterns over the fabric of your pants, while his other arm was tucked around your waist, tethering you to him.

"Jason," you murmured, running a hand through the dark hair at the crown of his head, your fingers catching slightly on the white streak near his forehead. "I need to get up for a second."

A low, rumbling groan came from his chest. His grip on your waist tightened instantly, pulling you down an inch lower.

"No," he said, simple and stubborn, his face burying deeper into your stomach.

"I've been sitting here for three hours."

"Good. You were gone for three hundred. You owe me." He turned his head slightly, peering up at you through dark, heavy lidded eyes. The sharp, violent edge he wore out on the streets of Gotham was entirely stripped away here, replaced by a quiet, protective possessiveness that he only ever allowed you to see. "You're staying right here."

"I was just going to grab my phone" you chuckled, your fingers massaging the base of his neck, feeling the thick tension in his muscles finally give way under your touch.

Jason reached down into his jacket pocket, which was tossed onto the floor beside the couch, pulled your phone out, and set it on your chest without even looking. "There. Problem solved. Don't move."

He brought your hand down from his hair to his mouth, pressing a long, warm kiss to the back of your knuckles, then to your palm, before resting your hand over his cheek. He held it there, his calloused skin warm against yours, his thumb absently rubbing your wrist where he had measured your pulse two weeks ago.

"I hated it," he admitted softly, the room quiet save for the distant murmur of Gotham traffic outside. He didn't look up, but the honesty in his voice was stark, stripped of any bravado. "Place felt like a morgue while you were gone. Couldn't sleep. Every time the floorboards creaked, I thought..." He let the sentence hang, shaking his head slightly.

He shifted, lifting his upper body just enough to rest his chin on your chest, looking up at you with a heavy, unwavering stare. His hand moved to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jaw line.

"You aren't going anywhere for a long time," he said, not as a command, but as a quiet, unspoken plea wrapped in his usual rough delivery. "Got it?"

You smiled, thumbing over the small scar near his lip. "Got it"

Jason grunted in satisfaction, leaning up just enough to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, slow, deliberate, and full of a quiet hunger that had been building for fourteen days. When he pulled back, he didn't move away; he just rested his forehead against yours, breathing in the quiet safety of the apartment, content to stay exactly where he was for as long as you'd let him.