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The pounding on the door startles Damian awake as effectively as an explosion would. It takes him several seconds to remember where he is—one of his father’s summer estates, and almost a minute to calm his thinking enough to realize that this is most likely not a test of some kind. His heart is racing so fast that he swears that it’s a heart attack. If this were the League, he knows what to expect, but here, in his father’s world, there’s no predictability like that.
Breathing hard, he’s out of bed and moving to the door before it’s fully registered that he’s doing so. The pounding has grown more intense, rattling the windows now, and Damian works hard not to jump each time. He hurries down the hall and patters downstairs quickly, quietly, into the living room, hoping to find Father or Pennyworth or even Grayson—anybody who might be awake and know what’s going on.
When he enters, the room is utterly dark and he runs a hand along the wall, feeling for the light. But then someone grabs his hand and hisses “Don’t”.
Damian jerks his hand free, feeling relieved because it’s just Drake and furious for allowing himself to be snuck up on and at Drake for startling him. He sucks in his breath and whirls, squinting to see the older boy’s face. He’s about to open his mouth and say something, probably something very nasty, when the pounding starts up again, this time coming from the direction of the back door. They both jump.
“Come on,” Tim whispers and, before Damian can react, he grabs the smaller boy’s wrist and pulls him along and back up the stairs. “Hurry.”
They’re all the way upstairs before Damian remembers to react and pulls free again. “Where’s Father? And everyone else?”
“They decided to run into town for some groceries and stuff about an hour ago; I wanted to stay and catch up on some work. We still don’t have any service up here—I tried.”
“I don’t know why you’re so concerned, Drake.” Damian almost sneers, because it’s much easier to be angry than to be scared. And if Tim’s scared too, then something’s not alright. “The security system should have already engaged and even if it hasn’t, I, at least, am well equipped to deal with any pathetic attempts these idiots may make.”
Tim stares like he’s worried about Damian’s sanity. “Okay, look, this place doesn’t have a security system, genius! B just bought it a month ago and we haven’t had time to renovate—that’s part of this whole ‘vacation’ bull.” The slamming on the door stops for a moment, and he pauses, listening...and then there’s the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen. “Shit! And neither of us can do anything, because we’re stuck in here: you’re Damian Wayne right now, not Robin. We can’t do anything that ‘normal’ kids wouldn’t do, okay?”
Damian has no real response—he’d forgotten the difference in expectations in Father’s house, as opposed to the League. And of course, one of those is keeping his cover as an average ten-year-old child. He grimaces angrily and Drake nods sympathetically.
“Sucks. Okay, we have to hide. Um…”
“Why can’t we at least try to defend ourselves,” Damian interrupts angrily.
“You know why,” Tim hisses back, glancing down the stairs worriedly. “Come on!”
He grabs Damian’s hand again and hurries over to the far bedroom, shoving the door open and hustling them both inside. He lets go of Damian and shuts the door as softly as possible, then starts trying to maneuver the old, stiff lock into place. Damian will never admit it, but he almost misses the contact. He brushes the absurd notion aside and starts to look around for anything they can use as a barricade. He can hear Drake’s whispered curses as the lock continues to stick.
After a moment, the older boy stops struggling with the lock, murmuring “fuck” as he backs away from the door.
“Here,” Damian whispers, indicating the heavy chest of drawers closest to the door. “If we can move this…”
Tim nods and moves to help him shove at the unwieldy furniture. After a few tense seconds, it budges oh, so slightly. But no matter how hard they strain, the chest of drawers will not move any further, stopping several inches from the door. They both stop, chests heaving, and Tim is about to suggest trying again when Damian hisses softly for him to be quiet. Both boys freeze, barely breathing as they strain to hear the sound of the stairs creaking and two male voices conversing softly from down the hall. And then there’s the sound of the first door slamming open. For a moment, silence reigns and all Damian can hear is the sound of his own shallow breathing.
“Fuck, Mikey!” A man shouts angrily and the boys jump. “You’re sure nobody’s here?”
The reply is softer, but they’re able to hear well enough. “Yeah—I mean, they all left, remember? The two rich guys and the old dude, they got into the car and drove off about an hour ago. I was watchin’…”
The voice fades out as the man heads away from the occupied room. The boys exchange glances as they both realize what’s about to happen. Tim sucks in a shaky breath and moves into the room, looking around wildly for a place to hide. After a few moments, he hurries over to the closet and pulls it open, stepping inside quickly. Almost as soon as he does, there’s an exclamation from the hall and the sound of something crashing. He races back out of the closet and grabs Damian by the shoulder.
“Get in.”
Damian doesn’t argue, stunned into silence by the angry shouts from outside and the intensity of the older boy’s tone. He gets into the closet and moves to the far corner. As soon as he’s crouched down, Drake is throwing a blanket over him and doing something with the boxes stacked neatly to one side of the closet.
“Drake, wh—“
“You stay in here until someone gets you, understand?” Tim hisses, cutting him off. He moves more boxes, completely obstructing Damian’s view of the door. “If you don’t move, they won’t be able to see you, got it?”
Damian gets it. “But what are you going to do?”
“There’s not enough room in there, okay? I’m gonna hide out there. Just…be quiet and do not move or…anything. Please.”
Before Damian can respond, the door is shut and he’s left alone in the dark, straining for any sound of the intruders or his brother. Hating himself for not arguing and for being scared, and Drake for treating him like a child, he waits. After a moment, the anger is gone and replaced with a tightening fear in his chest as the sounds grow louder and louder outside.
---
The men are searching each room now, and one of them is calling out in a fake sort of tone.
“Hey, come on out, kid. We know you’re in here. Just come on out, we ain’t gonna hurt ya.”
Tim is incredibly thankful at the moment that he hasn’t unpacked anything yet—his room looks totally unused, and the intruders seem convinced that there’s only one kid in the house. He’s so relieved by this—even if they find him, they’re not going to find Damian, because they aren’t looking for more than one kid. As he thinks this, the door next to this one slams open, the coaxing calls suddenly close enough for him to catch even the hint of the man’s north-eastern accent. He breathes shakily and closes his eyes, scooting back under the bed as far as possible.
And then the door to this room comes smashing open against the wall, actually knocking a picture off the wall when it hits. From his position, he can see two sets of feet come into the room, both wearing work boots with heavy steel toes. Every step thuds and vibrates through him, and Tim holds his breath.
“Come on, kiddo. We ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come on out now.” The sweeping beam of the flashlight skirts the edge of the bed and moves across the floor and towards the closet. “Oley, oley, oxen-free!”
He can see one pair of boots clomping towards the closet, and he sucks in a breath of air loudly, then scuttles back to give himself room. He’s intentionally loud, and he can almost cry, he’s so relieved when the boots stop and both pairs turn towards the bed.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” the man sings, taking slow steps towards the edge of the bed.
Despite Tim being totally prepared for the discovery, he still jerks back when the light is suddenly shining in his face and there’s a man grinning gleefully behind it.
“Boo.”
Tim swears under his breath and shoots out from under the bed. He swerves around the other man and races for the door, totally intent on making them chase him, because, yes, it’ll help Damian stay hidden, and also because he is not surrendering. He can hear the clomp-clomp of work boots on the hardwood floor behind him, gaining swiftly.
Swerving sharply, he takes the stairs two at a time, trying not to slip in his socks on the wooden steps. He’s almost at the bottom when a heavy weight hits him from the back, sending him down, face-first onto the floor. The thud is loud enough that he’s pretty sure Damian can hear it from the closet.
Tim lands awkwardly on his hands and stomach, and he can feel the pain spike instantly as his wrist breaks from the angle. He struggles, trying to get out from under the man, panting heavily. The gruff curses and grabbing fingers serve as enough of an incentive for him to jerk his injured arm back hard, smashing his elbow into the man’s face.
For a moment, he’s free, and he tries to get enough purchase on the floor to move faster. But the other man is also down the stairs by now, and he brings a swinging blow from the flashlight squarely against the side of Tim’s head. Tim falls hard and scoots back, disoriented and trapped.
“Damn, kid,” the man with the flashlight says, looking amused. “You just had to go and make things harder, huh?”
Since all Tim can think of for responses are the impressive vocabulary of insults he’s picked up (mostly from Jason), he opts for silent glaring: the man sounds more amused than pissed and Tim’s not dumb enough to antagonize an armed man twice his size if he can’t fight back. The other guy—Mikey; the voice matches—is up now, and he looks a lot angrier, so he’s probably more of a threat right now. He eyes Tim angrily.
“The fuck should we do with him? We’re on a schedule here.”
The two men begin a hushed, angry conversation, while Tim watches them, gingerly touching his injured wrist—definitely broken. He’s incredibly thankful that Damian isn’t down here right now—the boy has a way of angering people to the point of violence. After a second, the men stop, having reached some sort of decision.
“Okay, get up,” Mikey snaps angrily. “You try anything smart, and it’s over, got it? No trouble and this’ll be over soon.”
It’s all Tim can do to not roll his eyes at the very fake promise—no way they’re just letting him go, not when they know he can give a description to the police. But he wobbles up and follows the curt order to “take a seat” on the armchair in the living room. If nothing else, it’ll give him a chance to come up with some way out of this…assuming Damian doesn’t blow it.
---
After ten minutes of waiting, Damian has lost his patience. He’s got no idea where the men are right now—or Drake—and he’s not content to hide like a coward any longer. So he cautiously makes his way to the closet door and eases it open very slowly. He pauses, listening for any sign of the intruders, but after a few moments of dead silence, he opens the door all the way and slips out.
The room is dark and empty, which he’d find comforting, if it didn’t mean that he still has no clue where Drake or the men are. Breathing in slowly to center himself, he moves into the hall slowly, every fiber of his being taunt with caution. As he approaches the stairs, he can cabinets in the study being rifled through and things being broken. Damian creeps down the stairs carefully, trying to discern the number of people in there.
He notes the beam of a flashlight flicker out of the living room and peaks in. There’s one large man in there, holding a flashlight in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s relieved—barely—to see that Drake is there as well, looking relatively unharmed. He also looks furious, Damian notes, recognizing the tense expression on the older boy’s face. A second later, their eyes meet, and Tim’s not just angry, he’s livid. He cocks an eyebrow at Damian, eyes flicking to the man and back again. Damian nods in agreement.
He creeps back down the eye and into the kitchen, quickly snagging a few items that can be used as weapons. He pauses to listen again, then slams the drawer as hard as he can before taking off into the hall and up the stairs, hiding around the corner.
It takes less than a second for the plan to work: Damian is barely up the stairs when Tim is darting out of the room and upstairs, the large man fast on his heels. He streaks by Damian, breathing “now” as he goes. Damian grins predatorially and raises the cast-iron pan he brought with him. The instant the man comes through the entry, Damian brings it down hard on the back of the man’s head, sending him sprawling. The intruder drops like a stone, fully unconscious as he lands with a thud.
“Shit,” Tim mutters walking back to look at the man. “I hope the other guy didn’t hear that. Nice hit, by the way.”
Damian nods curtly. “Of course it was. Well, what’s the plan then?”
“Dunno. Um…get the other guy before he gets us?”
“Tt. That’s your ‘plan’?”
“You got a better plan?” Tim snaps, grabbing the unconscious man’s arm. “Here, help me. Ugh! And besides,” he adds, tugging with one hand. “I’ve got an excuse—I broke my wrist.” He holds up the injured arm for a moment.
The excuse is valid, though Damian would never admit it. But he bites his tongue and helps drag the man’s deadweight to the far bedroom. They use a few ties to truss the man up and quickly gag him. After that, Damian shows off his arsenal: a pan, three knives, and a rolling pin.
Tim looks impressed. “Nice.”
“Tt.” Damian slides one knife and the pin over. “Try not to stab yourself. Let’s go.”
The grin he gets back is equal parts malicious and determined. Damian is suddenly grateful to have the older boy on his side—Grandfather is no fool, and he did pick Drake as an heir. Letting the thought go before he starts feeling resentful again, he jogs out after Tim.
When they reach the top of the stairs, they can hear Mikey calling for his companion from somewhere down below.
“I’ll lure him into the living room,” Tim murmurs, taking off downstairs before Damian can reply.
Cursing the ridiculous plan and his companion’s risky decision, Damian moves silently into the living room. Then, there’s nothing to do but wait, and he has plenty of time to fume over the way he’s being ordered around. He’s just about to ditch the suggested plan and deal with the miscreant himself when there’s a commotion from outside the room. Dishes being smashed and the sound of something hard hitting something harder, some cursing (Mikey’s) and then the unmistakable sound of a blow landing on flesh.
He can hear someone slam against the adjoining wall—Drake, if he had to guess—and then the older boy comes racing into the room, diving over the couch a little awkwardly. The man is right behind him. Damian swings…and misses by a hair—the motion must have caught the intruder’s eye, because he dodges, spins around, and rips the pan out of Damian’s hands before the swing has followed through.
Damian dives back swiftly, grabbing for the first knife. He pulls it out and throws it as hard as possible. It’s not a throwing knife, so the aim is a little off, merely slicing the man’s arm open instead of sinking into the flesh. The man curses and flings the pan at Damian, missing by a good foot. Damian takes the opening to dive over the couch and join Tim, already pulling out the second knife.
They both leap off the couch the next moment, as the man grabs and flips the piece of furniture. And then he’s holding something, pointing it at them. Tim registers gun first and shoves Damian hard, sending the boy stumbling back against the bookshelf.
“Look,” the man says, breathing hard. “This isn’t how I wanted the night to go, truly. But the thing is—try it and I’ll shoot him right now!” He glares at Damian, who slowly drops the book he’d been about to throw. “Good boy. Now go stand over next to your big brother there. Good. As I was saying, I really didn’t plan on having to use this, but such is life, right? Anyway, I’m sure you can see my problem here…”
“We won’t tell anyone, honest!” Tim blurts out, surprising himself with the level of desperation in his own voice.
“I’m not stupid, boy. Now shut it.”
Tim’s mouth snaps shut and he eyes the man warily, mind racing to come up with some way out of this mess. None is forthcoming, and he has to swallow back the angry words threatening to come out. Ultimately, he decides, this is all Bruce’s fault for making those stupid fucking rules. Because he can’t think of anything productive, he shifts so that he’s slightly in front of Damian, figuring that he might as well try to keep Damian alive—the brat doesn’t deserve to die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The shift in positions is not unnoticed by Damian, and he can’t quite decide if he feels insulted by the assumption that he needs protection or…touched (maybe?) by the fact that Tim, who he’s pretty sure hates him, is willing to try and take a bullet for him. Regardless of how he feels though, there’s no way to get past the older boy without being obvious about it. However, just so Tim knows that he doesn’t (does) appreciate the gesture, he leans forward enough to bump against Tim’s shoulder. No, the physical contact is not for comfort. At all. He is surprised though, when Tim reaches back and grips his wrist, squeezing gently. After a second, Damian gets it—Morse code.
“Look, I’m sorry about this, really. But I’m not going to jail because of some spoiled little brats.” Mikey says determinedly, cocking the gun. “Okay, how about you two close your eyes, huh? It’ll all be over in a second now.”
Damian throws the last knife, and this time he hits the man squarely in the shoulder. At the same time, Tim shoots forward, breaking the grip on the gun with skilled precision and slamming his shoulder into the man’s diaphragm. The momentum sends him sprawling on top of the man as they both fall back to the couch. The gun has skidded across the floor to land at Damian’s feet. Without thinking, he snatches it up and takes aim.
“Drake, move.”
Breathing heavily, Tim rolls off and comes to stand next to Damian. He eyes the younger boy, the gun, and then the statue-still man on the couch.
“Give me the gun,” Tim says in as calm a voice as possible. “Damian, give me the gun.”
Damian hesitates. “He can’t—“
The man lunges, taking advantage of the momentary distraction. He dives at Damian, who whips his head around in realization, taking a step back to gain space. Tim makes a clumsy attempt to stop the attack, failing because of the tight space. And then the gun goes off.
---
Bruce sighs idly and leans back against the seat of the car. He’s exhausted (though he’d never say so) and the long drive back is really the first chance for rest he has had since arriving. So much for a “vacation”. Across from him, Dick is fidgeting, shifting from position to position and groaning loudly.
“Comfortable?” Bruce asks after yet another overly-dramatic groan from his eldest son. “We’ll be back at the house soon and you can go to bed.”
“I know.” Dick moans, looking bored.
“It helps if you actually sleep, y’know. I’m pretty sure that harassing your brothers doesn’t count as ‘resting’.”
The younger man grins wickedly. “Yeah, but it’s more fun. I mean, have you seen how grumpy Tim gets? It’s friggin’ cute. And don’t get me started on Damian…”
“I see. Well, if you’re going to mess with Tim, see if you can get him to at least take a break from the computer, okay?”
“What, you’re not gonna tell me to make him sleep?”
Bruce snorts in amusement. “I’m being realistic.”
Dick chuckles and moves to stare out the window, leaving Bruce to his musings again. Feeling even more drained, the older man rests his head back again and allows his eyelids to droop closed. He’s just about drifted off when Dick exclaims loudly, startling him into wakefulness again.
“Hey! We’re here!”
Groaning, Bruce heaves himself up and out of the vehicle. He looks up at the house and frowns. He can sense Dick tensing as the younger man alerts to the situation. The window on the far side of the house is shattered, smashed inward.
Feeling his stomach drop, Bruce turns to the car again, where Alfred has just gotten out.
“Alfred, see if you can get a signal and call the police please.”
The older man nods and quickly reenters the vehicle. Breathing shallowly, Bruce turns back and starts towards the house, moving quickly to catch up with Dick, who’s already running to the window and climbing through. Cursing under his breath, Bruce follows suite.
They enter the kitchen and stop quickly—the room is a wreck, drawers hanging open haphazardly, dishes shattered across the floor. There’s a bit of blood on some of the shards, Dick notes, drawing in a sharp breath. His immediate fear is that they won’t find anything—it wouldn’t be the first time a member of their family was kidnapped for ransom, and since the boys were home and at ease, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. Assuming they even had the chance to…
Frowning, he glances back at Bruce. “How do we play this?”
“Well,” Bruce says, looking around. “Unfortunately, there’s really only one way: we’ll just have to play the concerned family. The boys aren’t in uniform and neither are we. They’ll be expecting Bruce Wayne, if they’ve even thought it out that far.”
Dick nods, frowning. “Okay. But, just so y’know, I’m not gonna refrain from kicking their asses if I run into them…and if they’ve hurt them…” he trails off, his meaning clear.
Together, they move silently into the hallway. The passage is in just as much disarray as the kitchen had been—not a good sign. From somewhere up ahead, there’s a clattering noise. Both men go onto high alert, moving in sync as they approach the doorway.
Inside, the room is utterly destroyed, shelves toppled, a window shattered, the couch flipped over. At first, Bruce thinks the living room must be empty as well. But then he spots a small, barefoot peeking out from behind the upturned couch. Heart racing, he rushes into the room, mouth too dry to call out. Bruce races around the couch, stopping short as he takes in the situation.
The first thing he notices is that Tim has a gun. The teen glances up at him, then turns his attention back to the man on the couch, who Bruce is just now noticing. The intruder looks incredibly angry, although there’s more than a hint of fear in the gaze as well, and he seems torn between watching the gun and looking at Bruce. For his part, Bruce dismisses the man for the moment to look over at Damian—the boy is slumped up against Tim, either asleep or unconscious.
Letting out a slow breath of relief, Bruce holds out his hand for the gun, which Tim hands over silently, still watching the man on the couch. Dick, who’d come over during the exchange, crouches down to check on the boys, leaving Bruce to deal with the intruder. He sighs and begins to secure the man, listening in on the conversation that’s being had.
“You okay?” Dick’s voice is full of concern.
“Peachy,” Tim mutters drily. “Broke m’ wrist. ‘Nd maybe got a concussion. Damian got sort of shot.”
Dick’s voice rises an octave. “’Sort of?’”
There’s a rustling sound and then some grumpy noises as Damian is woken up.
Tim helpfully adds, “It just grazed him. We put a bandage on it, he’s fine. Ow, Damian, I’m not the one doing that!”
“Ugh, stop it, Grayson! I am fine,” Damian snaps, clearly irritated with being woken. “Drake and I had the situation well under control!”
“I’m just making sure. Knock it off, Dami. Okay, if you had time to bandage this, why didn’t you two set Tim’s wrist?”
“He insisted on holding the weapon.”
Bruce can hear Dick groan in exasperation. Satisfied with his knots, the man turns around to check on his sons. Damian is sitting up now, his usual scowl once more in place and injured arm cradled against his chest. He’s glaring at Dick’s back while his older brother is attempting to get a better look at Tim’s wrist. For his part, Tim is being decidedly unhelpful, pulling his arm away and snapping something about not needing any help.
The sound of sirens approaching can now be heard in the distance, and Bruce feels relieved—the situation in now in control again and the feeling of helplessness he always experiences when he’s forced into this sort of role is fast dissipating. He sighs and crouches down next to the boys, reaching over to squeeze Damian’s shoulder comfortingly.
“Tim, let me see please,” he says, holding out his free hand.
His middle child sighs and holds out his arm, grimacing slightly. It’s a bad break, but one that should be easy enough to set. Bruce gives the boy a sympathetic look and lets the arm go, moving to get a better look at the bloody gash on the back of his son’s head. Tim winces and pulls his head away.
“I’m fine, B. ‘S not that bad.”
Deciding against arguing with the teenager over the seriousness of the wound, Bruce just shakes his head and brushes some of the hair from the boy’s face. He can hear the sound of someone banging on the door, announcing the presence of the police. Bruce calls out directions to the room, and a few minutes later, the room is full of police officers and paramedics.
---
After a long trip back into town to get the boys’ injuries treated and the statements have been given to the police, Bruce decides to check them all into a hotel. Given the events of the past few hours, he’s firmly against booking multiple suites, giving in to an irrational need to be able to see his children and ensure their safety himself. Dick rolls his eyes and smirks a little, but doesn’t comment; the younger two don’t seem to even notice—Damian is asleep on his feet and Tim’s too busy fussing with his new cast to say anything.
“Okay, we’ve just got the two beds tonight, boys. So…Tim, let’s have you share that one with Dick, and Damian and I will take the other one. Alright?”
“Huh?” It takes a second for the information to register with the teen. “Yeah, sure. Dude, you better not be all clingy, ‘cuz I will kick you.”
Dick predictably starts teasing his younger brother, although Bruce notes that the young man doesn’t push too hard. This is something he’s thankful for, because the last thing he needs right now is a peeved, slightly-drugged Tim. Bruce tries not to go too far into the outcome of that scenario as he gently maneuvers Damian onto the bed and pulls the covers over him. The child grabs his hand before he can turn away though, looking serious.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“I do not wish to spend more time in that building until proper security measures have been taken to ensure that such a breach does not occur again. Drake is in agreement with me on this.”
Bruce can’t keep from smiling fondly at the statement. “He is, huh? Well, I think you’re being entirely reasonable, Damian. And I’m not letting anyone stay there again until we’re sure that there’s no more vulnerabilities. Okay? Now let’s try to get some sleep, kiddo. I’m going to make sure your brothers don’t kill each other real quick, and then I’ll be back.”
He waits for the boy to nod and release his hand before turning to check on the other two. Apparently, Dick’s stopped picking on his brother in favor of taking a quick shower. Tim is currently splayed out, face-down on the bed. He groans in protest when Bruce gently prods him to roll over
“C’mon, you can’t sleep with your shoes on, Timmy. How’s your head?”
“’’M fine. I can untie my own shoes, B.”
“I know,” Bruce smirks. “Humor me. You’re not going to try and smother Dick in his sleep, right?”
“We’ll see.”
“Be nice. So, Damian says you agree with him about security systems?”
“Yeah. I mean, the little gremlin’s right—we shouldn’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Tim starts picking at his cast again. “’Sides, we kinda wrecked the place. What?”
Bruce gives him an exasperated look. “Don’t call your brother a gremlin, Timothy, you know that’s not nice.”
“He is though. C’n I lay back down now?”
“Yes, now be nice. I am proud of you, by the way, for what you did tonight. Please don’t pick at your cast.”
“What for? ‘Nd ‘s itchy.”
“It’s always itchy. Don’t pick. And you know what. You kept Damian from getting hurt, which can be a real challenge, I know.”
Tim snorts and pulls the blankets up to his chin. “No kidding. He was okay tonight though. Came up with a way to stop ‘em. He’s pretty smart sometimes.”
“He is,” Bruce chuckles a little. “Try to get some sleep before Dick gets done, okay?”
The teen nods and rolls back over onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow. Bruce sighs and briefly wonders what the rates are for people suffocating in their sleep. But he leaves it and turns down the lights before climbing into bed next to Damian, who’s already fast asleep.
Tomorrow, he knows that both boys will be back at each other’s throats, but for now, they’re both sleeping peacefully. Sighing, Bruce tries to relax, listening to the soft sounds of his children breathing. He can worry about the rest tomorrow, because his boys are safe tonight.