Chapter Text
“Father?” asked the little boy tentatively. It was a little past one in the morning. The man currently sleeping on the couch grunted and shifted slightly. The boy stood a moment, perplexed and unsure of what to do. Damian Wayne frowned, looking alarmingly like his father, Bruce, did when he was mulling over a particularly complicated case as his alter ego, Batman.
Damian had been living at the manor for about a year and a half. In all that time, he had almost never seen his father this… unguarded. Having been raised in a world of strict hierarchy and propriety, it was rare to see anyone relax. After having joined his father, though there was less ceremony than with the League, that didn’t mean anyone was more prone to relaxation.
In fact, Damian would have said, if he were prone to saying such things, that his father was the least relaxed person he’d ever seen. But he wasn’t and so he didn’t, merely observed it. So, when he’d come downstairs to the media room to do some ‘cultural learning’— watching television, which Damian liked, but would never admit he did— he’d been surprised to hear someone snoring there.
At first, he had thought it to be Drake, as the boy tended to work himself until he passed out. But no, the snoring emanating from the couch was too deep to be Drake’s… it seemed to carry more weight than his. Then he had guessed that the person might be Todd, given his fondness for acting inappropriately, plus, it seemed the most likely that he would be the one to sneak into the manor to simply watch television. But after some more thought into the matter, Damian decided that the snores were too deep for even Todd’s annoying mouth.
With curiosity, he rounded the corner to see his father sprawled on the couch, throw pillow under his head, a blanket draped over his feet. He was wearing, to his son’s embarrassment, a tank-top and sweatpants— something not dignified enough, in his opinion, for the patriarch of the house of Wayne.
Bruce shifted in his sleep again, curling onto his side, and Damian noticed the bandages wrapping his chest and rib area. The child frowned, uncertain of when his father could have received such an injury, as he himself had been patrolling with the older man all last week. With alarm, he remembered the day that Bruce had been flung into the wall in a fight with Killer Croc.
Damian had rushed to his side, asking if he was all right. Bruce had grumbled at him and gone about business with seemingly no difficulty. Damian scowled, dark storm clouds visible in his eyes. It was unacceptable for him to not know when his father was injured.
Damian went closer to inspect the bandaging job Pennyworth had done. He carefully peeled up his father’s shirt another few inches when— a massive hand grabbed his wrist and he was half-pulled on top of Bruce. Bruce blinked slowly, looking at his son for a moment, and released him.
He sat up slightly, unable to stop the wince as his ribs shifted with the movement. “Damian? What are you doing down here so— is it late or early?” he asked sleepily.
“Early, Father. You were asleep when I came down here to watch television, as Drake, Todd, and Grayson have informed me it holds much cultural knowledge about Western society,” Damian stated.
“Right,” Bruce said, sounding a little more alert, “I was working on something down here… must have fallen asleep. Go back to bed, son.” With that, he settled down once more. Damian frowned at this most perturbing response from his father. The man never fell asleep while working, let alone in a place that wasn’t his bed. As if he could sense his son’s continued presence, Bruce rolled over, so he was facing his son. “What is it?” he asked.
“Why did you not tell me you were injured, Father? It could be important tactical knowledge later,” Damian said carefully.
Bruce’s eyes widened for a millisecond— so that was why Damian had woken him in the odd way he had— and he sat up again. “I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not that bad and I knew Alfred could patch me up,” he said honestly.
This seemed to make Damian angrier, as he scowled and approached his father.
“I would not have worried over such a trivial injury; Mother would have scolded me if I had. It is simply important that your partners have knowledge, so they can assist you as needed,” he said. .
Bruce sighed, great, he’d disappointed his kid… again. “It’s really not that bad, Damian. But, I am sorry,” he apologized.
Damian froze in his retreat and turned around. Suddenly, he somersaulted and landed on the couch behind Bruce, deliberately jostling his father. Bruce hissed involuntarily at the movement. Damian merely looked at him a moment, letting him know he knew that Bruce’s bullshit wouldn’t work on him. Then he said sweetly, or as sweet as Damian could get, “I accept your apology, Father.”
He got up to move once again.
But Bruce said, “Wait. Damian… would you like to sit with me a while?”
Damian paused, heart in his throat. He wanted to say, ‘Very much, Father. I have been waiting for you to ask for far too long.’ Instead, he simply said, “If you wish.” Bruce scooted over on the couch so there was a spot on the edge, big enough for Damian to lie down in, next to him. Damian lay next to his father and felt a strange warmth in his heart.
“So, tell me what shows you like to watch to learn about Western society. Maybe I can recommend something…” Bruce said.
Half an hour later, Damian halted his response to his father’s question, having realized that the man had fallen asleep. He made to get up and return to his own bed, but Bruce’s arms suddenly wrapped around him in a bear hug. No matter whose child, or by whom one was trained, there was no escaping a bear hug by the Batman. Damian sighed slightly and resigned himself to a long night.
The next morning, when Alfred when to the media room for its routine cleaning, a surprising sight greeted him. Master Bruce was curled up on his side, hair askew, with his arms wrapped around his youngest son. Damian, so rarely peaceful, was curled against his father, holding one of the older man’s massive hands in his own tiny one. The pair had an afghan blanket covering their feet.
Alfred smiled and went to get a few people. Ten minutes later, he came back, followed by Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and Tim Drake. At the sight of Bruce and Damian, Dick smiled and clutched a hand to his heart. Jason snickered, and was smacked by Dick for being too loud. Tim merely gestured at Damian and withdrew a cell phone with a shit-eating grin on his face. Alfred likewise withdrew a camera and took a photograph.
Tim showed the photo to Dick and Jason, who laughed loudly at the sight. This startled Bruce, who sat up quickly, blinking at his boys.
“What are you all doing here? And where’s your brother?” he asked but seemed to realize as he looked down at the sleeping form by his side. He smiled slightly but soon snapped a hardened expression on his face. “I expect all photos of this to stay within the family,” he ordered, giving the ‘bat-glare’ to everyone in the room.
“Why of course, Master Bruce,” Alfred promised. The three boys behind him snorted, but likewise agreed.
Bruce stared at them a moment longer then lay down again, saying, “Wake me when breakfast’s ready.”
The four intruders left the room. Dick stopped Alfred and begged, “Please tell me that’s going on the Christmas card, Alfred!” The older man smiled, a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, without a doubt, sir. This year’s card will surely be a favorite amongst the cape and cowl community,” he said. Jason and Tim exchanged looks, thinking about Damian’s reaction, and started laughing again.
“I can’t wait to see the old man’s face,” Jason said.
“And Damian’s too,” Tim added.
On December 24th, the Wayne Christmas card arrived at Clark Kent’s address. He eagerly opened the envelope, written in Alfred’s hand writing, and laughed aloud at the image. Right in the center, prominently placed, was a photo of Bruce and Damian, asleep on the couch. The inscription on the back said, ‘May you all find peace in this holiday season.’ Clark chuckled again, just imagining Bruce’s reaction when he saw the card.
December 24th, Wayne Manor:
“Alfred!”
“Pennyworth, what is the meaning of this card?” Both Waynes strode into the kitchen, holding the same object in their hand.
“Why sirs,” said the butler, “I believe that is the Wayne family Christmas card of this year. Is something the matter?” Bruce and Damian looked at each other in disbelief.
“Great card, Alf,” Jason said, strolling into the kitchen.
“Can’t believe I’m agreeing with Jason, but yeah. We might have to rename Damian though, Jay. He’s too cute here to be a demon. I vote we change his name to snuggles,” Tim said, snickering. Jason chuckled.
“Maybe, replacement, maybe,” he said. Bruce scowled.
“This is not funny, Todd!” Damian exclaimed.
“You’re right,” Dick said, walking into the kitchen, “it’s cute! And hey, you can’t blame us for doing this! It was Alfred’s picture, and idea. Literally, the butler did it!” The kitchen was filled with laughter after that, even Bruce’s.
“How long did you wait to say that, Dick?” he asked.
Solemnly, his son answered, “Too long, Bruce. Too long.”