Chapter Text
The antacid tablets fizzled in the cup of cold water on his desk. Bruce picked up the glass and swirled the contents, releasing more bubbles. Once the tablets were dissolved, he drained the glass. Bruce tapped out two migraine pills before dumping the bottle into one of his desk’s drawers. The clock in the study clicked in the rare, blessed quiet.
Of course, Alfred had the flu. Of course, Alfred, Damian, and Tim all had the flu. Damian and Tim caught it first, then gave it to Alfred. Bruce was fairly certain he was also coming down with it, despite having his flu shot. Duke was definitely coming down with the symptoms, but denied it through his sniffles.
Tim missed a week of work. Damian missed a week of school. Both kids were miserable and irritable. Bruce wanted them out of the house now that they were ambulatory.
Talia was being a bitch, again. He didn’t know why. He did know why. She left about ten messages on his phone explaining why. Not that he had listened to most of them. Whatever she needed to say, she could say in person when he was on patrol.
It probably had to do with the current lawsuit that WayneTech had filed against LexCorp for theft of intellectual property. Normally, Bruce wouldn’t care if someone stole a patent to help other people. Considering that Lex Luthor was a conniving sonuvabitch who planned on using this for his own, personal gain, Bruce wanted to shut down his operation quickly. At least his company’s stocks were good.
Of course, with Tim out, Bruce actually had to attend all of the meetings this week. He had to bow out of the monthly Justice League meeting to meet with the board of Wayne Enterprises. He should have gone to the Justice League meeting. It would have been more productive.
The doorbell rang. Bruce was about to ask Alfred to get it, but realized that the old man was currently in his bed, fast asleep. Bruce groaned, rising from his desk. He walked out into the foyer, and opened the massive front door.
“Hiya, Mister Wayne!” said Jonathan Kent, waving. His father, Clark Kent, stood behind him holding a gigantic thermos and a messenger bag.
“Hello, Jonathan. Clark,” Bruce said with a nod.
“Where’s Alfred?” said Clark as he and his son entered the house.
“Sick. Damian’s well enough to have visitors. I’d avoid Tim. He’s… taking a little longer to get back to his old self.”
Jonathan bounded up the stairs. Clark smiled and shook his head. “He’s been asking about Damian all week. I think he’s itching to go back on patrol.”
Bruce grunted. “I’m assuming you’re not here for a social call.”
“No, I’m here for a social call and for business,” said Clark. He held up the thermos. “Also, Lois heard through the grapevine that Alfred was sick, so she made him some chicken soup. I hope it lives up to his standards.”
“He’s in his room if you want to give it to him. I’ll meet you in my study.”
Clark saluted and sauntered towards the servants’ quarters in the back of the house. Bruce shook his head. He turned to go back to his office when the doorbell rang again. Frowning, Bruce went back and opened the door.
Kamiya Addams, Damian’s civilian friend and Snow Ball date, stood at the front door panting and clutching her backpack strap. The portly girl held up one finger. Bruce waited patiently. “Hello, Mr. Wayne,” she panted. She looked back towards the driveway, then turned and looked at him. “You have a very long driveway,” she stated.
Bruce poked his head out of the door and glanced around. There was no car in his driveway, and no evidence that a car had recently driven in his driveway. He blinked rapidly in surprise. “How did you – do your parents know that you’re here?”
“I hope so, otherwise it’s going to get awkward later. I told my Aunt Toquisha to tell them. And I called. And I left a note. So, I think so,” she panted.
Bruce opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed deeply. “Where are your parents?”
“It’s kind of a funny story. See, we haven’t had power at my apartment for the last week because Superman knocked out some transformer in his last epic battle. So, we’ve been staying with my Aunt Toquisha and her, like, three kids – which means that it’s kind of cramped, and I’m not overly thrilled about it – anyway, Mom’s working for a temp agency since she got laid off from LexCorp. So, she’s got the car. Dad’s working double shifts, and Star had to go in to cover for J’Havion because his baby sister’s got the flu.” Kamiya sighed. “May I come in? I have Damian’s homework.” She motioned to the backpack.
Bruce waved her in.
“Thank you,” Kamiya entered. She looked around and whistled as Bruce shut the door. “Nice place,” she muttered.
“Thank you,” said Bruce. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please. If you don’t mind.” Kamiya put her bookbag on the floor as Bruce went into the kitchen. He was going to make tea for himself anyway. Kamiya began to walk around the foyer, looking at the different paintings on the walls.
At that moment, Tim shuffled down the stairs cloaked in a big, blue, fleece blanket. He looked at Kamiya. He blinked. “Oh, for the love of – BRUCE!” he bellowed. “REALLY? ANOTHER ONE?” Tim extended one hand underneath the blanket. He looked like an irate, blue, fluffy ghost.
Bruce emerged from the kitchen holding two mugs. He glanced at both Tim and Kamiya. “What? No! Tim, this is Kamiya. She’s a friend of Damian’s. Kamiya, this is my son, Tim.”
Tim sniffed. “Oh. Good. Your parents aren’t dead, are they?”
“Uh, no?” Kamiya eyed Tim suspiciously.
Tim snorted, clearing his nose. “Good.” He shuffled over to Bruce and took one of the mugs. “Thanks for the tea,” he muttered before shuffling back up the stairs.
“That… was… that was for me,” Bruce muttered glumly as he passed the other mug to Kamiya.
The rapid pitter-patter of footsteps thundered on the upstairs landing. Jonathan Kent ran cackling as Damian chased him down the stairs.
“Return my stolen property, this instant, Kent!”
“Nevar!!” bellowed the younger boy as he held a sketchbook triumphantly over his head. He leapt over the last five steps before running headlong into Kamiya. The tea flew out of her hands and spilled down Bruce’s front. Bruce groaned.
“Oops, sorry, Mister Wayne,” said Jonathan, sheepishly.
“Jonathan Samuel Kent, how many times do I have to remind you not to run in the house?” Clark Kent admonished his son, sternly. He had heard the commotion and went to investigate. “Go into the kitchen and get some paper towels to clean this up.”
The younger Kent hung his head and slowly walked into the kitchen.
“Sorry about that, Bruce. He knows better.”
Bruce wiped at his shirt in vain. “I’ll be back,” he muttered wearily.