It’s one of those hard-ass days where Bruce is strict on his fitness regime. Being Batman isn’t just about the ability to land a good punch, or solve cold cases with little to no leads—it’s about keeping the body in good condition in order to achieve the epitome of vengeance wrapped inside the human body.
Dick practices this in other ways. As Robin, he’s created a legacy of swiftness, flexibility and the ability to be light on his feet. While Bruce lifts weights and runs cardio like Batman’s life depends on it (because more often than not it does), Dick keeps himself in shape by going through the motions of aerial gymnastics. It’s fun, keeps him focused, and helps him learn new ways to turn a knock-out kick into something flamboyant.
Bruce prefers to exercise in silence. It helps him think, to focus his mind and tune it perfectly with his body. He likes to be sharp and switched on at all times. Dick is the opposite—performing the acts he does lawfully requires music to set the mood. It was a long, drawn out argument that turned into a simple compromise that Bruce gets to choose what music they listen to.
And people look at Bruce Wayne and assume he’s a classical, jazz music type of guy. They’d be correct in their assumptions, of course. Bruce loves a good radio station that plays jazz music. But behind closed doors, when Bruce shakes off his Brucie Wayne persona? He’s pure Batman mode, and the immediate assumption is that he’s all heavy-metal, pure head banging rock music. And that would also be correct.
Dick stands perfectly still on the tightrope, a blindfold covering his eyes. His ears twitch and his mouth moves along to the lyrics of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck. An absolute must have tune on the playlist that Bruce had begrudgingly curated for their workout sessions. If not for the fact that he’s working on his balance—which seriously couldn’t be anymore flawless than it already is—he would have been nodding his head along to the masterful beat of the drums.
The bass vibrates through the walls and floor. Bruce lays on his back, the barbell lowering to his chest before rising again as he pushes the weights away from his body. He’s on his fourth rep of bench-pressing four-hundred pounds—a much lighter workout than usual due to his recent wound on his ribs. Due to the fact that he’s listening to such a bass-heavy song, he can’t help but press the weights in perfect timing to the beat.
The door to the gym creaks open, and in wobbles Charlotte. Socked feet, holding a damp-eared rabbit with fur coated in snot, dribble and a substance that can only be assumed as food. She pauses in the doorway, wide blue eyes taking in the large, monstrous workout equipment and the sight of her dad and older brother both focused in their training. Her little toes wiggle at the funny feeling of the music vibrating through the floor.
Immediately Charlotte beelines for her dad at the bench press, her tiny taps of feet unnoticed due to the booming music. It’s different to the mellow nursery rhymes and classical music that Alfred plays for her on the radio. It makes her whole body feel fuzzy, like the song itself is seeping through her organs.
Charlotte reaches the bench press in record time and stands by Bruce’s legs, a gooey string of dribble dripping from the corner of her mouth. Her gums have been awful recently, with a molar pushing through and causing a ridiculous amount of misery and grief for everyone involved. Her plush rabbit, the one with a drool-soaked ear and snot crusted stomach (the dreaded toy that Dick cringes at holding, and the toy that Alfred must pry from Charlotte’s sleeping hands in order to wash) is clutched in her offhand, with her other reaching up and gently tapping the bulky, thick calf.
Bruce halts his press instantly at the feeling before hooking the bar onto the indents for safety. He cranes his neck down and suppresses a huff, spotting his red-cheeked toddler looking up at him from beneath her long dark lashes. Her curly hair, sprouting from her previously bald head, is frizzy and untamed, looking wild.
Bruce sits himself up and presses a button on his wrist watch. The music doesn’t stop, but the volume lowers a considerable amount. And suddenly the noises of the gym are more amplified than they had ever been.
“Charlotte,” Bruce mutters, reaching out and placing his daughter onto his lap. He looks over to the door, half expecting to see Alfred lingering nearby, but he’s surprised when he doesn’t see the butler anywhere. It’s not like Alfred to leave the baby unattended, especially since it’s his rule that Charlotte has to be supervised at all times. “Where’s Alfred?”
Charlotte blinks up at him and lifts her hand to his cheek, offering a gentle pat. Bruce is thankful she isn’t being handsy and insisting on slapping him again.
“Fee,” Charlotte repeats, her words drenched in dribble. “Fee.”
“Yes, Alfred,” Bruce confirms with a firm nod, as if this is a conversation with another grownup and not a fourteen month old child. “Is Alfred not watching after you, Charlotte?”
Charlotte blinks a few times, then puffs out her cheeks and blows a very wet raspberry in Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t flinch as dribble splashes across his face, but he does wait until she’s finished before wiping his hand down his forehead, cheeks, and chin.
Across the room, Dick has finally crossed the tightrope and is skilfully swinging down from the high bars. He pushed into a front flip and lands clean on the mats, not looking winded at all. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark locks from his forehead as he crosses the room to approach Bruce and Charlotte.
Charlotte swings her gaze around to look at him, her entire face brightening at the sight of one of her absolute favourite people in existence. Her legs start to bend and straighten in a repetitive bouncing motion, with her little heels digging into Bruce’s thick thighs. Bruce steadies his hold on her chunky body, ensuring she doesn’t fall off with how unsteady she is.
“Kee!” She squeals before blowing another raspberry, this time aimed at Dick. Luckily he’s standing a safe distance away to avoid the splash zone.
Dick casts his gaze briefly around the room and frowns. “Where’s Alfred?”
Bruce grunts. “That’s what I want to know. She wandered in here by herself.” He stands from the bench and adjusts Charlotte against his chest with one arm. Charlotte instantly snuggles into his neck, her hand reaching up and providing an approving pat to his cheek.
Dick follows as they exit the gym, curious and worried for the state they’ll find the loyal butler in.
It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for them to arrive in the kitchen, where Alfred can usually be found at this time. But what they’re met with is an empty kitchen, impeccably clean and void of life. Bruce crosses the threshold in a couple of long strides and pokes his head into the pantry door, only for his frown to deepen when he finds that empty too.
Then rapid footsteps approach from somewhere down the hall. Dick and Bruce turn in sync as Alfred enters the room, looking unflappable, but undeniably stressed about something. The older man pauses in the doorway and instantly straightens, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of Charlotte perched happily in her father’s arms. A string of dribble drops from her chin, threatening to plop onto Bruce’s compression shirt.
“Ah, there you are, young Miss,” Alfred begins with a sigh.
Bruce quirks a brow upwards. “I thought it was your rule for Charlotte to not be left unsupervised?” He asks, though there’s nothing scolding about his tone.
Alfred tilts his head into a nod. “Indeed it is sir, and it seems that rule must extend to during Miss Charlotte’s nap times. I had assumed the rails of her cot were high enough to prevent unnecessary stunts, but it’s now evident to me that she has inherited more than just your looks, sir.”
Dicks brows fly upwards in surprise. Then his mouth twitches, and suddenly he leans forward, hands bracing on his knees as he barks out a humoured laugh. Bruce watches in amusement, and he adjusts Charlotte in his arms so he can look down at her with a faux stern expression.
“Are you telling me my daughter climbed out her cot?” Bruce asks, glancing between the fourteen month old and his friend.
Alfred nods his head. “Yes, sir. She is far more agile than I had originally anticipated.”
Dick continues to wheeze his amusement from his lungs. “Oh, she’s an escape artist in training,” he shakily breathes out. Tears pool in the corners of his eyes, his entire stare glassy from how hilarious he’s finding the situation.
Charlotte, whether she understands that the conversation is about her or not, beams rather proudly up at Bruce. She leans her cheek against his, and Bruce chooses to ignore the fact that her skin against his is questionably sticky.
“Ba-ba,” she coos.
Bruce can’t help but chuckle. He rests a large hand against her small back. “I never thought we’d have to baby proof her own bedroom,” he murmurs thoughtfully, “or set up cameras, apparently.”
Alfred sighs. He sounds defeated for an old man. “I shall contact Mr Fox to arrange for surveillance instalments in Miss Charlottes bedroom.”