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Bruce never planned on becoming a father. It just happened. A kid needed him, a precocious twelve-year-old boy who reminded him too much of himself. And then it kept happening, over and over again. Another precocious twelve-year-old boy who tried to steal his tires. A third one, who didn’t need a father at first, who already had one, until a few years later he didn’t. A girl, whose biological father had tried to turn her into a weapon. And one last boy, the first of them who was related to Bruce by blood, who needed him just as much.
He knew he filled a strange, nontraditional role in each of their lives. He’d promised Dick when he adopted him that he would never try to replace the father Dick had lost. He’d made a similar promise to Tim. Jason had never required such a promise, but had nonetheless taken a while to accept Bruce as a permanent figure in his life and not someone who was going to discard him when he stopped being a novelty. Cass had no frame of reference for what a father was supposed to be like, and Damian had always thought of Bruce as his father, but it also took him a while to figure out what that really meant.
With each of his kids, “Dad” had never been Bruce’s primary title. To the older four, he was almost always “Bruce” – unless he was in costume, and then he was “Batman” – or “B” sometimes, in casual conversation. To Damian, he was “Father,” and it wasn’t quite the same.
But there were times, however rare, when Bruce earned the title “Dad” from each of his children. And though he never put any pressure on them to refer to him in any particular way, he treasured these moments, collected them like trophies. Bruce never planned on becoming a father, but once he became one, it eclipsed every other role he held.
Dick called Bruce “Dad” many times by accident in his first years at Wayne Manor. Bruce never made a big deal about it, because he could tell it pained Dick every time he said it. He felt like he was betraying his biological father, and Bruce never wanted to make Dick feel that way.
Around age fourteen, it stopped happening. The word “Dad” came less easily to Dick. He was moving on, adjusting to his new life. This was a bittersweet experience for him, one Bruce knew all too well. Every day that passed took Dick farther from the time when his parents had been alive, but it also brought him more happiness and less paralyzing grief.
Dick was sixteen when the word reentered his vocabulary. Bruce was traveling for work, something he tried to do as infrequently as possible so he didn’t have to leave either Dick or Gotham without him, but at least a few times a year, it was unavoidable. He made up for it by informing trusted colleagues of his absence – Kate, Diana, Clark – and calling Dick every day, no matter what.
“How’s Beijing?” Dick asked when he picked up the phone. There was an eleven-hour time difference; Dick had just gotten home from school, which meant it was four in the morning for Bruce. He would have still been up had he been home, so it was a small sacrifice to stay up to talk to his son.
“I wouldn’t know,” Bruce answered, the sound of Dick’s voice making him smile. “I spent twenty hours on a plane, took a power nap, and then spent eight more hours in a boardroom. How’s Gotham?”
“Still here.” He could hear an answering smile in Dick’s voice. “It hasn’t gone up in flames just because you left.”
“Very funny. Did you have a good day at school?”
“It was fine. We’re doing physical fitness testing. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to pretend I couldn’t do as many push-ups as I actually can. I figured the fact that I was raised to be an acrobat is a good enough explanation for how strong I am, but I tapped out after a hundred because everyone was staring.”
Bruce shook his head fondly. He was trying to help Dick build a secret identity, but Dick sometimes struggled being anyone but himself. He was far too genuine. More than Bruce had ever been. “None of the other kids could do a hundred push-ups?” Bruce asked.
“I know! Crazy.” Dick exclaimed this like it was scandalous. Of course, he’d grown up in a circus. His baseline standard for the physical ability of an average human was always going to be out of whack.
“You also had your Anatomy test today, didn’t you?”
“Yep. It was easy.” Dick sounded proud of himself. As well he should be. “Like I haven’t already memorized all the bones and muscles in the human body.”
“With grades like yours, you could be a doctor one day,” Bruce remarked.
“I don’t want to be a doctor. The hours are too long. I need a career with a good work-life balance so I can keep my night job.”
Bruce almost laughed at the seriousness with which Dick said this. He had to remember that Dick wasn’t a little kid anymore. He was reaching the age when it was only natural for him to think about his future.
Thinking about how old Dick had gotten on him always startled Bruce. Where had the time gone? It felt like just yesterday that he’d started training Dick to be Robin. “Where are you learning terms like ‘work-life balance’?” he asked.
“Not from you,” Dick teased.
This time Bruce did laugh. “No, not from me.” He had a terrible work-life balance. Always had, always would. “Anything else noteworthy today?”
“Not really. Just waiting for you to come back.”
If talk of his future career had made Dick sound older than he was, this made him sound young again. Under all the intelligence and bravado, he was still a kid who missed his father. And Bruce missed him too. “Two more days,” he promised.
“I know.” Dick infused some energy into his tone. “You’re gonna bring me something, right?”
Of course he would. Bruce always brought Dick something from his travels, even though it meant he had to venture out into whatever city he was visiting when normally he wouldn’t see the outside of his hotel room and various office buildings. “What do you want me to bring you?”
“I dunno,” Dick said. “Something cool.”
“I’ll see what I can find.” Bruce was still smiling. He found he couldn’t stop. It was a refreshing change of pace for him. “Keep impressing all your teachers and outperforming all your classmates,” he instructed.
“Duh,” Dick replied.
“I’ll see you soon. Love you.” This wasn’t something Bruce said often – the words didn’t come easily – but he was trying to get better at that.
“Love you too, Dad.”
Bruce’s heart stopped. He blinked several times, feeling abruptly overwhelmed. He knew he was supposed to continue as though nothing had happened; that was what he’d always done when Dick slipped up. But it had been a couple years since that had happened. What if it wasn’t a slip-up this time? What if Dick actually meant it?
Dick recovered too quickly for Bruce to get his hopes up. “I mean… sorry. I mean Bruce.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Bruce told him, impressed that he managed to keep his tone level. He was suddenly desperate to hear Dick say it again. “Whatever you want to call me is fine by me.”
“Okay.” He heard Dick swallow. “I love you. Dad.”
Bruce closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way. Possibly never. “I love you too, son.”
Jason did not accidentally call Bruce “Dad.” Jason’s biological father was not someone he missed. Jason felt a complicated range of emotions for the man: hurt, anger, regret that he hadn’t been a better person, a better father, the type of father Jason deserved. But he did not miss him. And he never referred to him as “Dad.” He rarely referred to him at all.
So when Bruce adopted him, and when Jason finally started to relax into life at Wayne Manor – stopped hoarding food in his room, stopped carrying a packed bag with him everywhere he went, stopped trying to run away every time he and Bruce got into a fight – he didn’t make much of a connection between Bruce, an imperfect man who was nonetheless trying as best as he could to give Jason a better life, and his biological father, who hadn’t put an ounce of effort into Jason beyond impregnating the woman who gave birth to him. Honestly, Bruce took this as a compliment.
Jason was fourteen, two years younger than Dick had been the first time he’d called Bruce “Dad” on purpose. That hadn’t lasted long. Bruce was still mostly “Bruce” to Dick until he turned eighteen, and then they had their fight and he was hardly anything at all. When they made up, he was “Bruce” again. Only “Bruce.” And Bruce knew he deserved it.
He wasn’t expecting anything other than “Bruce” from Jason either. Maybe when the boy was older. Maybe when he’d had even more time to integrate into the family; maybe then Bruce would get lucky. But Bruce wasn’t counting on it. The progress he’d made with Jason already was more than enough.
Perhaps it was the fact that he wasn’t expecting it that made it happen. That always seemed to be the case with Jason.
It was an exceedingly rare night. Bruce and Jason were not out on patrol, and not because either one was sick or injured. There was a hurricane whipping through Gotham, with winds strong enough to uproot trees and rain slapping the walls of Wayne Manor with such force that it sounded more like hail. Thunder rumbled furiously overhead, and flashes of lightning illuminated the edges of Bruce’s bedroom windows around his blackout curtains. There was zero visibility outside and a flash flood warning. Not even Gotham’s craziest criminals would be getting up to anything tonight, and so neither was the Bat.
But that didn’t mean Bruce was sleeping. It was only midnight. On nights when he didn’t go out, he knew there was no hope of him falling asleep before two, at the earliest. His internal clock was fucked beyond repair.
Thunder drowned out the quiet footsteps creeping down the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw his bedroom door opening, and he turned to face it, suppressing his initial instincts that told him it was an intruder. It wasn’t. It was Jason, dressed in his pajamas, looking even younger than usual. His eyes were wide, and he was staring at Bruce like he hadn’t actually expected him to be there. Like he’d expected him to be gone.
“What’s wrong, Jay?” Bruce asked, because if Jason was coming into his room in the middle of the night, something was wrong. He knew Jason had nightmares, but Jason rarely allowed himself to be comforted. Bruce couldn’t fault him for this; he’d been much the same at Jason’s age.
“Nothing,” Jason insisted immediately, but he still wouldn’t take his eyes off of Bruce.
“Are you sure?”
Jason set his mouth into a determined frown. “I’m sure.”
Bruce scooted over, making room for Jason on the bed. “Do you want to come sit with me?” If he made his company something he was offering, instead of something Jason had to ask for, Jason was more likely to accept it.
Jason hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said.
“You didn’t,” Bruce assured him. “I was already awake. I’m not used to going to sleep this early.”
Jason nodded his agreement. “It’s weird.”
Finally, Jason closed the door and crossed the room to Bruce’s bed, climbing in under the covers. He left several inches of space between them, and Bruce respected that distance. It was enough that Jason was next to him. It was more than enough.
“Were you dreaming about something?” he prompted, sensing that Jason wanted to talk. He could see it in the way Jason was working his jaw. He had something to say, but he was too afraid to say it.
“No,” Jason lied.
Bruce knew, by now, how to get Jason to admit to his vulnerabilities. Bruce had to admit to one first. He was happy to do so, even though it would usually pain him just as much as it did Jason, if it meant Jason would let him in. “I had a dream last night,” he said. “About my parents. I dream about them a lot.
“They’re not always nightmares. Usually they are. But sometimes it’s a good dream, either a happy memory or…” Bruce had to take a breath here. “Sometimes I dream that they’re still alive. Those are worse than the nightmares, because I wake up to a world where they’re gone.” He closed his eyes. “I wish they could have met you and Dick.”
“They probably would’ve liked Dick a lot better than me,” Jason mumbled.
“They would have loved you both,” Bruce insisted. “But my father especially would have loved to talk to you about literature.”
Jason finally looked up at Bruce. “What was his favorite book?” he asked.
“Fahrenheit 451.” Bruce smiled. “Cliché, I know.”
Jason looked away again, which was how Bruce knew he was about to be vulnerable in return. Bruce’s gambit had paid off. “I’ve been reading Frankenstein,” he said.
“You told me.”
“Tonight I had a dream that my mom came back from the dead as a zombie. Catherine,” he clarified. “She tried to take me away.” Jason frowned. “I know it’s stupid. People don’t come back from the dead.”
“Dreams aren’t always realistic. In fact, they usually aren’t.” Bruce hesitated. He knew Jason’s feelings for Catherine were almost as complicated as his feelings for his father, but he was still surprised to hear what Jason’s nightmares revealed about his deepest fears. “You didn’t want your mother to take you away?”
“No.”
Bruce felt his heart swell. “You can sleep here tonight,” he offered. Jason looked up at him, and he gave the boy a conspiratorial smile. “If any zombies try to take you away, I’ll fight them off.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but he smiled back. “If you dream that your parents are still alive, tell your dad that my favorite book is—”
“The Catcher in the Rye,” Bruce finished for him. He knew.
“Yeah.”
“I will.” Bruce settled in like he was going to try to sleep, even though he knew sleep wouldn’t come, because he thought it might compel Jason to try to sleep too. “Goodnight, Jason,” he said.
Jason settled in too, facing away from Bruce. “G’night, Dad.”
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.
Tim accidentally called him “Dad” before Bruce even was his dad. Bruce tried not to read too much into it. Tim had a father, a living one, who loved and cared about him. Bruce was his mentor, and nothing more. And if sometimes he looked at Tim and thought how much he reminded him of himself, and how much he looked like Bruce’s other kids – how much he looked like Jason – he always dismissed this as a selfish notion, driven by grief.
Tim was sharp, and capable, and caring, and his father and stepmother were lucky to have him. Bruce was lucky to have him too, as Robin. He didn’t like to imagine how much farther he might have descended had Tim not come into his life and interrupted his spiral before he could reach rock bottom.
They were in the Batcave: Tim, Dick, and Bruce. Tim and Dick were sparring, and Bruce was watching and giving Tim (and occasionally Dick) pointers. During one of their breaks, when Dick was inhaling a bottle of water like he’d just emerged from forty years in a desert like Moses himself, Tim turned to Bruce and said, “Dad—” before going wide-eyed with horror and cutting himself off. Dick smirked at him. Bruce refused to let any emotion show on his face.
“Bruce,” Tim corrected, too humiliated to make eye contact with his mentor. “Oh my God.”
“You’re fine,” Dick said, stepping in, and Bruce was grateful that he did, because he hadn’t yet found any words. “Everyone does it. Bruce has dad energy.”
Bruce mustered a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“One time Wally accidentally called him ‘Dad,’” Dick informed Tim with a conspiratorial grin.
Bruce had almost forgotten about that. “That is true,” he said.
Tim looked intrigued, and far less embarrassed. “How did that happen?” he asked.
“Bruce was acting like a dad,” Dick said, like this explained everything.
“Wally almost got himself killed on a Teen Titans mission,” Bruce said. “Dick called me in and I had to rescue him.”
“And then he lectured Wally on safety,” Dick added. “You know, like he does. And Wally said, ‘Okay, okay, I get it Dad.’ And now they work together in the Justice League and Wally has to live every day with the knowledge that he called Bruce ‘Dad.’”
Tim laughed, and all was well again.
All was well, except now Bruce felt even guiltier than he had before, and thought he probably owed Jack Drake some sort of apologetic gift basket.
A few years passed. Tim lost his father, and this only compounded Bruce’s guilt. He took Tim in – of course he did – but he almost didn’t want to think of Tim as his son, even though that was what he had been doing all along. Because that was what he had been doing all along. And now Tim was his son, and he didn’t deserve it. Not if it meant Tim had to lose his biological father.
Tim noticed the distance between them. Bruce knew he did, and he felt guilty about that too.
It took a long time for Tim to call Bruce “Dad” again, even by accident. Cassandra came into their lives, not as a member of the family at first but as a member of the team nonetheless. What it ultimately took, though, was Jason returning, and nearly taking Tim away from Bruce.
Tim was stuck in the Manor for weeks while he recovered from his injuries, and Bruce visited his room every day, changing his bandages, bringing him meals, asking him how he was feeling, or just sitting with him, discussing Wayne Enterprises or the Teen Titans or the Justice League.
Some time in the middle of all this, Bruce realized he could look at Tim and no longer feel that familiar pang of guilt in his chest. All he felt was the warmth that he felt when he looked at Dick. The warmth he’d once felt when he’d looked at Jason.
Tim returned to full health and resumed his activities as Robin. Bruce encountered him in the kitchen late one night – or early one morning, technically speaking – after patrol, and he gave Tim a reprimanding look. “What are you still doing up?”
“Same as you,” Tim said, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.
“I had a phone call with investors from Korea.”
“Oh.” Tim frowned into his coffee. “Not the same as you, I guess. I’m working a case.”
“Well, stop working,” Bruce instructed. “It’s time for bed.”
“I’m almost finished—”
“I don’t care.” Bruce took the now-empty mug out of Tim’s hands and rinsed it in the sink. “Everything you’re working on will still be there in the morning. Upstairs.”
“I just drank a whole cup of coffee,” Tim protested.
“You and I both know it takes at least three cups for you to feel anything. Bed.”
Tim sighed. “Fine.”
They walked upstairs together, side-by-side. Bruce felt that warmth, that nigh-unbearable fondness, but he kept his tone firm. “If I find out you’re not sleeping, I’m confiscating your phone and laptop.”
“I’m gonna sleep,” Tim promised.
“Good.”
They reached the second floor landing and Tim crossed his arms and turned to Bruce. “Are you gonna sleep, Dad?”
Bruce did an emotional double-take. He couldn’t tell if Tim was teasing him or not. (God, he hoped not.) “Yes,” he said. “Sweet dreams, son.”
Tim’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What? Oh, God, did I—?”
Ah. Not teasing, then. Another accident. Despite himself, Bruce felt his spirits fall. “You did. It’s okay.”
“It’s okay?” There was something almost like hope in Tim’s voice.
“Yes.”
Tim nodded. “Okay.” He looked at Bruce, then looked away, took half a step toward his room, and said, “Goodnight, Dad.”
There it was again. Warmth.
When they first met, Cassandra didn’t call Bruce anything, for obvious reasons. After she learned language, he was “Batman” until she discovered his secret identity, and then he was “Bruce,” like he was with the others.
Dick still mostly called him “Bruce” too, although he’d resurrected “Dad” for a few special occasions, when he could tell Bruce needed it or when he thought Bruce was, once again, “acting like a dad.” Tim used “Dad” even more infrequently, almost always late at night after patrol, when they were both exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally.
With Jason, of course, Bruce was no longer “Dad.” He probably never would be again. Likely due to Dick and Tim’s use of the word, Jason had picked up on its significance to Bruce and tried to use it against him. One of the rare times they ran into each other out of costume, and inevitably got into an argument, Jason sneered it at him, “Dad,” like they both knew he didn’t deserve it. Bruce must not have been able to hide the way it felt like he’d been flayed open, because Jason had looked alarmed for just a moment before schooling his expression back into one of anger. He’d never used the word again, not even in an argument.
Bruce almost wished he would, even mockingly. It had hurt, the way Jason had said it, but it hurt in a way that Bruce couldn’t get enough of, because it reminded him of the night of the hurricane and Jason’s nightmare and Jason’s favorite book.
Cassandra approached him about it shortly after Bruce adopted her, making her an official part of the family. Bruce was downstairs in the Batcave, lifting weights. Cass cleared a space for herself on the floor next to him and started doing push-ups. They worked out together often. Tim preferred to work out alone with his headphones in, and Dick worked out in his apartment building’s gym, and Bruce knew that Jason had a membership to the only gym in the city that let him pay cash.
Cass finished her third set of push-ups and leapt to her feet. “Why do Dick and Tim… call you ‘Bruce’?” she asked, picking up a pair of dumbbells and starting a set of bicep curls.
“Instead of what?” Bruce asked.
“‘Dad.’”
Bruce hid his reaction to the word, or at least he tried to. The knowing look in Cass’ eyes when she turned to him told him that, as usual, she hadn’t missed a beat.
At least she hadn’t asked about Jason. Bruce didn’t think he could talk about that right now. Or ever.
“Dick calls me that sometimes,” Bruce said in a carefully neutral tone of voice. “Usually when he thinks I’m being annoying.” (“You’re benched until that ankle stops swelling.” “Okay, Dad.” But it was always said fondly, with a smile in Dick’s eyes and sometimes a playful nudge.)
“But it’s, um, mostly… mostly ‘Bruce,’” Cass observed, taking a short break between sets.
“That’s true. Dick and Tim both had fathers before they met me. I’ve never wanted them to feel like I’m trying to replace the men who raised them.”
“But… you’re their father too,” Cass said.
“I am.” Bruce dropped the barbell he’d been lifting and took a long drink from his water bottle. “They’re used to calling me ‘Bruce.’ It’s fine. I don’t mind it.”
Cass nodded. She was silent for a moment as she picked her dumbbells back up. “Can I?” she asked, not making eye contact.
Of course. Cass wouldn’t want to call him “Dad.” She’d never called anyone that. It must have felt strange to her, like it had once felt strange to Jason, to have someone in her life who actually cared. Bruce hoped she knew how much he cared. He knew he didn’t say it enough, but Cass had always been able to read him, and he hoped she could read that too.
“Yes,” he said, “You can still call me ‘Bruce’ even though I’m your legal guardian.”
“No.” Cass finished her second set and finally looked at him. “Can I… call you ‘Dad’?”
Bruce blinked back at her. Oh. “Sure. Whatever you prefer.”
Cass frowned and looked away to start her third set. “Because you’re… way better than my, um, other one.”
“Yes, well.” Bruce started his next set too. “That’s not a high bar.”
Cass sadly nodded her agreement.
They worked out together in silence. Bruce finished his usual routine long before Cass did, but he lengthened it to give them more time together. He had always been comfortable with Cass like this, in companionable silence. He couldn’t read body language quite as instinctively as she could, but he knew she felt comfortable too.
When Cass finally finished, she mopped her forehead with a clean, dry towel and finished off a cold water bottle. “Can I ask… another question?” she said, sounding uncertain. “You don’t… have to answer.”
“You can ask me anything,” Bruce told her.
“Did Jason ever… call you ‘Dad’?”
So much for her not asking about Jason. Part of Bruce wanted to refuse to answer – Cass had even given him an out – but God, she’d called him “Dad.” (It was a miracle none of Bruce’s children had started using the word to manipulate him; it would have been easy to.)
“Yes,” Bruce said. “Before. For a little while.”
In between the night of the hurricane and Jason going off in search of his biological mother, Bruce had been “Dad” for a while. Not all the time. But more than he’d ever thought he would be.
Bruce didn’t mention the time Jason had said it since returning. He hadn’t told anyone about that.
“Sorry,” Cass said, looking down at her feet.
“It’s okay. You were curious.”
“I didn’t want to… to make you, um, upset.” Cass looked at him, and Bruce put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she leaned into it, so he drew her in for a hug.
“It’s not your fault,” he said into her hair.
“You’re… a good dad,” she told him.
Bruce didn’t think this was true. But it felt good to hear it. “Thank you, Cassandra.”
With Damian, Bruce was “Father” from the very beginning. It felt very different from “Dad.” It was a formality, not a term of endearment.
When Dick and Tim and Cass called Bruce “Dad,” it felt earned. As he came to care for the boy like the rest of his children, Bruce realized how badly he wanted to earn a “Dad” out of Damian. But he didn’t know if Damian would ever allow it.
Taking Damian in was not enough to earn it. Training him was not enough to earn it. “Dying” and coming back from the dead was not even enough (though it did earn Bruce an “I missed you,” and that… that was something).
In the end, it was nothing that Bruce did. It was something that Talia did.
Talia was disappointed in Damian for adopting his father’s ways – for taking his father’s “side” – and for rejecting the morals and values he’d been raised with for the first ten years of his life.
Bruce had always disagreed with Talia on a number of fundamental issues, but her treatment of Damian easily topped that list. She loved the boy, in her own way, but Bruce knew by this point in his life that love was not enough. Children needed more than just love. They needed care and guidance and unconditional support. And they would still make mistakes, and make choices their parents disagreed with, and that was okay. It was all part of the process.
Bruce hadn’t given up on Dick when he’d estranged himself. He hadn’t given up on Cass even when she had given up on herself. He hadn’t given up on Damian when he’d come to Bruce a trained killer. And he wasn’t going to give up on Jason, no matter what Jason did.
It was Mother’s Day. A difficult day for everyone in the Wayne family. Bruce had visited Martha’s grave that morning with a bouquet of her favorite flowers. He expected Dick and Tim had done the same for their mothers. Jason had two graves, and Bruce knew he visited them despite the hurt and anger and regret he held in his heart. And Cass spent the day training in the Batcave, not speaking to anyone.
Like Cass, Damian did not have a grave to visit. He also went down to the Batcave and trained, not with Cass but next to her. They had more in common than they did with any of their other siblings, and though neither of them ever verbally acknowledged it, on days like this, Bruce knew they both found some measure of comfort in the knowledge that they weren’t alone.
Cassandra came upstairs first, still silent. She passed Bruce in the kitchen. He knew this meant Damian was still in the Cave, alone.
He tamped down the grief he was feeling and went to his son.
Damian was standing in one of the shadowy parts of the Cave, staring up at the sleeping bats. His back was straight, his arms by his sides. His green eyes were dry, and his mouth was set in his father’s expressionless poker face. But Bruce knew him well enough to know that he, too, was grieving, a different kind of loss from the one Bruce had suffered.
Bruce came to stand next to him, also looking up at the bats. He allowed for several long minutes of silence. Neither of them moved. Damian did not look at him. Bruce finally spoke.
“Before I met you, I only had one regret.” He paused, realizing the utter untruth of this statement. “Let me rephrase that. I’ve always had many regrets, but one stood out above the rest.”
“Todd,” Damian provided dispassionately.
“Yes. What happened to Jason.” Bruce drew a breath. “I still wish I could go back and save him from dying, even knowing he would come back to life. It would have saved him so much pain and suffering. But after I met you…” Bruce looked down at Damian, who did not avert his eyes from the ceiling. “I regret that I didn’t learn about your existence sooner. I would have brought you here, and raised you with your siblings. I could have saved you so much pain and suffering too, had I known.”
Damian said nothing, though the corners of his mouth twitched downward before he caught them.
“Damian, I don’t think I’ve told you enough how proud I am of you.” Another twitch, and three rapid blinks. “Not just of your skills and your intellect, and the things you’ve accomplished as Robin, although I’m proud of those too. But mostly I’m proud of the choices you’ve made and the person you’ve become. I’m proud to call you my son.”
Another series of blinks, and Damian’s eyes had a sheen over them now. Bruce laid a careful hand on his back, and Damian did not lean into it, but he also didn’t lean away. “I’m sorry you’ve been forced to choose one parent over another,” Bruce said. “It’s a terrible position to be in.”
Damian finally looked at him. “I’ve chosen you.”
“I know. I—”
“I’ll always choose you, Father.”
They were both out of their depth here, but they were trying. Bruce leaned down to envelop Damian in a crushing hug, and rather than merely tolerate it, Damian hugged him back. He took a shaky breath next to Bruce’s ear.
“I love you, son,” Bruce said, feeling on the edge of losing his composure himself. “I wish I’d learned about you sooner, but I’m so glad I have you in my life now.”
“So am I. I love you too, Dad.”