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Chapter Text

There was a bevy of older women surrounding Damian at the art gala. Mothers, all of them, with their bored children dragged behind and then pushed in Damian’s way. From where Bruce stood in his own circle of sycophants, he couldn’t hear what the matrons of high society were saying to his son, but he could make an educated guess that it was something along the lines of what a handsome boy you are, you take after your father so well. Why don’t you play with my son, Hunter, or my daughter, Regina? I know you’ll all get along so well!

Damian, unsurprisingly, was disinterested. Unimpressed, given by the way he looked down on all the children shoved in front of him. (An impressive feat, too, considering that Damian stood at least an inch shorter than most of them.)

Bruce inclined his head to the man towards his right, making the appropriate sounds as he half-listened to a story about the Bahamas and swimming pigs. 

A brief glance towards the buffet table revealed that Damian was not there . The gaggle of children were, of course. The buffet table was one of the few sanctuaries a child could get in these events. He scanned the gallery a few more times. Dick had caught his gaze, flashing a quick ‘ok’ sign as he headed towards Iris Graham’s collection of charcoal drawings a little farther into the venue. Presumably to where Damian was. 

A server came by with a fresh tray of champagne. Bruce took that moment as an opportunity to loudly exclaim that there is someone he absolutely must talk with on the other side of the room, and deftly extricated himself from the group. Now, off to find his son.

Bruce wasn’t worried that Damian would try something— wait, no, he took that back. Five children and even more ‘children-adjacent’ children taught him enough to know that peaceful galas with the Wayne family present were few and far between. 

But that wasn’t the point. 

Damian had been ‘off’ more times than ‘on’ these past few weeks, following the appearance and just as abrupt disappearance from his brother. 

Damian’s brother. As in Bruce’s son.

(His firstborn son. His resurrected son. His ‘ trained in the League of Shadows to become a perfect killing machine’ son. Bruce was not one to believe in coincidences, but this was just absurd.)

Stubbornly, Damian continued to keep quiet on the subject of his brother. Either ignoring the question completely at worst or giving out cryptic comments at best. The best in the League , Damian had said. Even Grandfather feared him. 

A pack of reporters hounded at his heels, all bright flashes and a hundred questions per minute. He gave them one of his signature BruceTM smiles, all gleaming white teeth, and empty-headedness. He ended up being saved by the star of tonight’s charity gala, Iris Graham, an up-and-coming artist who grew from the poverty-ridden streets of Gotham herself. She approached him, most likely, to convince him to buy one of her works. Unfortunately for her, Bruce had places to be and had no time for idle small talk. 

“Ah, Ms. Graham, you look positively dashing tonight.” He turned to the reporters, gesturing at Graham’s elegantly cut dark green pantsuit. “Doesn’t she look lovely, ladies and gents? Anyway, have I told you, Miss Graham, how much I adore your work? Truly marvelous stuff. Especially the one with the Gotham skyline at night. How ever did you come up with that?”

The reporters shifted their attention to Miss Graham, who flushed under their gaze. Shoulders rolled back, she lifted her chin high and began to enthusiastically detail the story of the painting, first addressing Bruce on pretense, and then fully embracing the press’ attention. Bruce, without missing a beat, left to pursue his children again. 

The past few days marked a noticeable shift in Damian’s behavior, however. There was a lightness in his step as if a thread of unseen tension came loose. He was less snappish, less moody.

And he spent a lot of time on his phone.

It did not take being the World’s Greatest Detective to guess that Damian’s brother came into contact with him again. Though whether this would bode them ill or not…Bruce couldn’t say for sure. 

He met up with Dick who was leaning against a large square pillar, arms crossed and phone held at an angle that seemed a touch too awkward. “I would have figured you’d be over there with him instead of spying on him through your phone.”

Dick stuck his tongue out. He tilted his phone slightly to get his shoulder out of the frame and zoomed in on Damian who stood a little farther down the hall. “I tried, earlier, but he kept trying to run away from me,” Dick said. “He’s gotten better at this gala thing, for sure, so I thought it was fine to keep my distance. I’m just glad he’s not chewing anyone’s head off.”

“Is he texting again?”

“With the way his thumbs are moving? Oh, yeah.” 

Bruce’s phone buzzed. So did Dick’s. 

“It’s O.” Dick pushed himself off the pillar. “Poison Ivy’s been sighted and she’s causing havoc at one of Synototech’s research labs.”

Bruce grunted. “Get your brother. We’ll suit up.”

___

Red Robin was already on the scene when they arrived, dodging and weaving through the hoard of vines that sprouted in front of the entrance. 

“Poison Ivy has enough explosives inside the lab to level it to the ground!” Oracle said through their comms. “There are still people trapped inside. You guys need to get them out .”

A thick vine lunged at him. Batman barely rolled out of the way. The vine retreated, turning to curl itself around Poison Ivy, a calm and collected fury plain on her face. He barked orders at the others to disarm the explosives and get everyone inside the building out .

Farther away he spotted Robin with his katana drawn, slicing pieces of Poison Ivy’s plant army away. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” She thrust her arms outward, the vines obeying her command. Batman threw explosive batarangs at them before jumping away.
Nightwing yelled at Red Robin to jump back and slug explosive pellets at the entrance. The explosion ripped a hole into the entrance, and the two dove inside the building. 

Batman ripped a thick vine out of the ground and swung it around to take out the other plants. Another plant wrapped itself around his legs and flung him into the air. He barely stuck the landing.

The plants advanced on him again. Batman slid under them and slung a bolas at their base. The rope swung around the base and exploded.

Oracle’s voice crackled through the comms. “Nightwing got all the civilians out. Red Robin is nearly done disarming the bomb.”

He dodged a large thorned stem. At the corner of his eyes, he could see something dark red pulsing . 

Fuck. Where was Damian?  

It burst. A shrill scream. A bright blinding light.

Batman’s breath hitched. “Robin!”

He ran over to the plant bomb’s detonation sight. Pressing his comms, he shouted “Robin, what’s your situation? Where are you?”

“Help,” Robin said. Bruce’s blood ran cold. “ Father— he won’t stop screaming!”

“Poison Ivy’s fleeing the scene,” Oracle said.

Let her run, he’ll capture her later. Right now, his son needs him. 

“Gas mask, B. Don’t forget to put it on.”

The screaming had tapered off by the time he found his son. Robin knelt over something, back turned to him, the edges of his black cape singed. A few feet away from there were the remains of a giant plant that laid limp on the ground,  its red petals curled back tightly to the base of the flower. All around them there were giant holes— seeds —that dug straight through concrete.

“Robin,” He called out.

The other whipped his head back, eyes wide, gas mask already attached. “Father! Please— I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Robin shifted his position.

There, knelt on the ground, was Damian’s brother. His head was bowed, nearly pressed against the ground, one hand grasping at debris and the other clenched against his side. He whimpered on the floor, drawing himself tighter. Red coated his hand, seeped and spread through the white of his shirt.

He knelt at the boy’s—at Danny’s? That’s what he preferred to be called if Bruce remembered correctly— side. “What happened?” 

“I was careless. I wasn’t watching my back. Poison Ivy’s new plant bomb has a quicker detonation time and I wasn’t able to get out of the blast radius quickly enough. My brother he— he saw and he shielded me. But I don’t know why he’s— He said he wasn’t hit .”

Danny convulsed. A scream ripped through his throat. 

“Bullet?”

“A— a seed bullet from one of Ivy’s new plants. It’s still inside him.”

Shit. He fished out a small bottle of saline and wads of gauze from his utility belt and gave Robin instructions to help pack the wound. They’ll have to take him back to the cave. 

Bruce spoke through the comms. “Red Robin, Nightwing, report.”

“Explosives have all been disarmed, B. I think I might know Poison Ivy’s motives, too.”

“The building’s all clear too, except for these plants. What the hell’s been happening on your end?”

“Poison Ivy’s escaped. Danyal al Ghul has been injured; I’m taking him to the cave.”

“What?” Nightwing and Red Robin exclaimed.

“RR and I can handle the clean-up here, B. You guys go on ahead.”
Batman grunted. He lifted Danny up off the ground—why was he throwing himself into a fight wearing jeans and a t-shirt?— and carried him to the batmobile. Damian dogged at his heels, only pausing to swipe a sample of the plant bomb. 

“Oracle?”

“Already sent a message to Agent A to prep the infirmary, B.”

“Good.”

Danny slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness during their ride back to the cave.

Alfred was already prepared, the infirmary fully stocked and the operating theater ready for use.

“Wait—” Damian. “Anesthesia doesn’t work on you.”

Danny groaned through clenched teeth as Bruce helped him onto the operating table. “It’ll work. Righ— hah— ‘m weak ‘nough right now that it’ll work.” He turned to Bruce, words slurring. “Jus’ gimme the strongest you got.” Another groan. “Please.”

Bruce slipped that piece of information into the file labeled ‘investigate later.’ “Damian, get the computer to analyze the plant sample you collected.”

Alfred helped Danny slip off his torn and bloodied shirt and tossed it into a bin. “I wasn’t aware that crime-fighting attire would be so casual these days.”

“Gettin’ shot wasn’t r’lly on m’ to-do list today. Might’ve dressed better ‘f I’d known.”

They worked quickly,  hooking Danny up to the appropriate machines and identifying the location of the seed. Damian had rushed back with an analysis report on the seed. Other than possessing a very tough shell, the seed itself was harmless. 

Alfred finished cleaning up the wound. “The seed will have to stay inside, I’m afraid.”

Danny vigorously shook his head, eyes squinted and unfocused. “Nonono, ya’ gotta take it out.”

“Taking it out will only risk more injury than leaving it in.”

“‘Nd the seed is made out ‘f the only thing in this world that can kill me.”

What?

“Rosa disanthus,” Danny wheezed. “Check. That’s the plant, yeah?”

Damian flipped through the report again. “Its— the plant shares similar DNA with it, yes. But according to the computer it's harmless.”

“Not to me.”

With the exception of a raised eyebrow, Alfred looked nonplussed. “Very well then.” He injected more anesthesia into the wound site and pulled up a rolling chair next to Danny, forceps brandished in one hand. “Do try to keep still.”

“I’ll have you know that’m a champ at playin’ dead.”

***

Danny passed out soon after Alfred fished out the seed. Damian insisted that he help bandage his brother up, and in a rather surprising display of empathy, refused to leave Danny’s bedside.

Bruce managed to wrangle him to sleep by setting up another cot in the infirmary with plenty of promises to wake him up if anything happened. He crashed the second his head hit the pillow, showing how much this entire ordeal shook him. 

Before Alfred went about to clean the operating theater, he passed the bloodied seed off to Bruce. “While I may be old and hardly a medical expert, I’m quite sure that blood is not supposed to have bits of green in it.”

“Green?” Bruce took the forceps, holding the seed up to the light. It was unusually large, though judging from the plant it came from, he couldn’t be too surprised by it. He angled it slightly, eyes narrowed as he tried to spot a sliver of green. There. It was hardly noticeable amidst all the dark reds, but if you held it just right, you could see little flecks of green swirling about the blood. 

The seed itself looked unharmed, so it couldn’t have been from that.

Hm. More unanswered questions. 

While the blood was being analyzed, Bruce took the opportunity to breathe and—

And…

The remarkable thing about Danny was that his skin was unblemished. In their line of work—hero, vigilante, assassin — it was next to impossible to remain unscathed unless one had preternatural healing abilities or nigh-indestructible skin. Even Damian, young as he was, had a few scars to his name 

Danny—with the exception of the wound Alfred had stitched closed (a wound that will scar)— had none. Not a single mark.

That should be a good thing.

That should be a good thing. 

He is the best the League has ever produced

Bruce rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. He checked Danny’s vitals one more time, pulled Damian’s blanket over his shoulders, then sat himself down in front of the computer monitor. 

The first thing Bruce did was check on the summative reports that both Nightwing and Red Robin sent him. The mission was successful with minimal casualties and no deaths; all researchers within the facility were taken to the hospital for treatment. The two managed to neutralize the majority of the hostile plants Poison Ivy set both in and around the facility. Poison Ivy, however, still remained at large. 

Dick’s report also said that he and Tim were going to get something to eat at BatBurger and not to wait up.

You have some shit you need to sort out , the message seemed to say. And we’re not gonna be a part of it.

He closed off the report and opened a random assortment of case files. Despite his efforts, none of them really caught his attention, and he found his eyes glazing over. 

Bruce always had a good memory. 

It was useful more often than not. He was good at remembering faces and storing away minute details that may or may not become useful in a case, and it helped him juggle both of his personas. But there were times when having a good memory was more trouble than it’s worth.

Time heals all wounds— but a sharp memory had a penchant of reopening them.

(The heat was one of the things he remembered the most. The hot desert son relentlessly bore down on him, sweat sticking to his skin and matting his hair. The air so dry that every inhale parched his throat, and insects buzzed annoyingly around his ear. But all of that— all the discomfort, the heat, the sun, the stress—faded away when Talia—his once-love, once-passion, once the owner of his heart and soul—pulled him aside to whisper in his ears “beloved, I am with child.”

He kissed her there in that cursed desert. And even years later he still remembered the feel of her lips against his. The way that her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. The slow curl of her smile.)
(Another memory: It’s that damn desert again. The moon shone high in the sky, a pale and waning crescent. The sand that was hot to touch in the day was cold beneath his fingertips. The air was still so dry. He is angry at Ra’s, angry at this mission, angry at himself. Then came Talia, face cold and impassive but her eyes rimmed red, her spine rigid but Bruce did not miss the way she angled herself against the doorframe, almost clinging to it. “It’s gone,” she said, simple and straightforward as if she was remarking about the fucking weather. “The baby is gone.”)

(And another: They’re miles beneath the sea, just off the coast of the United Kingdom. The cave is dark and infested with mutant man-bats trying to escape to the surface and their son—their son, arrogant and unexpected but as relentlessly determined as their parents—had run off to fight the world’s most renowned hitman. Talia was not dead, was not captured. She stood waist-deep in the Lazarus pit…waiting.

Then, as if possessed, she dove in. He shouted her name and went in after her. Pulled her back to the surface. The green waters had slipped into her wounds, suturing them closed and seeping its madness into her. Her eyes flickered green. She tore herself from his grip, but then fell limp. He caught her, and as he did saw something that might have looked like tears at the corner of her eyes.)

( A final one:  Reunited and victorious, Damian ran to his mother. But as he came closer his steps slowed, then stopped. Face contorted into confusion. “Where—?”

Talia’s composure broke— but only for a moment. The cracks smoothed themselves away with an exhale. She closed the distance between her and Damian, fingers carding through his hair before coming down his neck and then cupping his face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s gone.”)

He blinked.

Alfred appeared at his side with a cup of warm tea in hand. 

Bruce gave Alfred a grateful look and silently took the cup. He took a sip, long and slow, letting the scent of chamomile calm him, and appreciating the pleasant warmth on his tongue. 

“Alfred,” Bruce said as he rolled back his aching shoulders. “What do you make of him?”

“Master Danny, I presume?” Alfred placed his hands behind his back. “I would not presume to make such judgments when I’ve only met him once. However, I do see a resemblance.”

With a grunt, he sipped his tea. “There’s something strange about him, Alfred.”

“I would say that about all your children, Master Bruce.”

Bruce chuckled. “Can’t argue with you there.”

Chapter Text

It had been twenty-four hours since they brought Danny to the cave. During that period, the entirety of Bruce’s assortment of children and associates had come down to visit the cave in order to gawk at Damian’s brother.

Damian, they learned, was quite the mother hen. He refused to let any of the clan crowd Danny’s bedside, with the exception of Alfred—who knew how to care for Danny’s wounds best—and Cass—because it was Cass.  

Despite it coming at the cost of Danny’s health, it was rather nice to see everyone under one roof and being someone amicable. Tim, Steph, and Barbara, however, couldn’t stay long. Tim and Barbara both had their own work to prioritize and Steph had some assignments she really needed to focus on. In their absence, Dick, Jason, and Cass decided to drag one of the Cave’s smaller training mats near the infirmary to sit on while they played a card game. 

Uno, judging by the amount of swears Bruce heard. 

“It’s weird,” Jason said. 

“What is?” Dick asked.

“It’s weird to see Danny of all people so banged up.” 

“Speaking of, you never really did go into your relationship with him.”

“Well, what’s there to say? He was my trainer. He taught me almost as much as Bruce did— which is really weird considering the guy was like fourteen when I met him.”

“Ok so he’s a ridiculously strong assassin prodigy. Horrifying implications aside, what’s he like though?”

“Well— a +3, Cass? Really? I have ten cards now.”

“Ha!” Dick laughed. “Serve you right for— no, not blue! That’s the only card I don’t have!”

“Fuck you, Dick.” Jason sniffed. “Anyway, there’s not really much I can actually say about Danny. Sure, I spent the better part of a year with the guy but I never really got to know him. Or, at least, he never let himself be known. It’s…honestly a little freaky how good he is at appearing so open and friendly while being so secretive.”

There was a pregnant pause and a shuffling of cards. Bruce couldn’t really focus on the cases sitting in front of him.

“He always looked so untouchable in the League,” Jason began. “He was goofy, yeah. Had puns for days. And the monks loved him; apparently Danny picked up all that inner peace stuff really quickly. But there was this weird, I don’t know, way he looked at things, as if he was nothing more than an observer. Like no matter what shitstorm befell the world, it wouldn’t matter to him.

“You know, there was this one time that the pit madness really got to me and I tried to strangle Danny. Do you know what he did?” A chuckle. “The motherfucker laughed. As if I didn’t have my thumbs digging into his throat.”

Danny woke at around midnight.

Bruce looked at (your son, the brain supplied. Son is a word he is intimately familiar with. The shape of the letters worn and softened with time, always at the tip of his tongue but never courageous enough to leave it. Son is a word infused with devotion and responsibility. Joy and sorrow. Pride and an endless sea of should’ve-would’ve-could’ve and most of all Love.)

(But this word— this word that is given to him looks familiar but is at the same time not.)

Bruce looked at a son. A son that is his by virtue of blood and genetics and how could anyone deny the boy’s parentage when Danny looks the spitting image of Bruce at seventeen. World weary and lost and looking for purpose.

He watched as the boy pushed himself up onto his forearms, eyes darting across his surroundings—lingering for a moment on Damian’s sleeping face on a nearby cot— before resting on Bruce.

Danny smiled, tilting his head. “Hello, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce inclined his head “Danny. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, right as rain. Thanks for patching me up. I could’ve done it myself but digging that seed out would’ve been a hassle.”

“It was no trouble at all.”

Silence. 

Bruce bit the inside of his cheek.

What exactly was he supposed to say in this situation?

His eyes slid over to the roll of bandages on a nearby table. “Bandages,” he said. “You’re about due to have them changed.”

Danny’s hand flew to his abdomen, pressed against the spot where his wound would be. “Oh you don’t have to do that.”

“I insist.”

“No, really, you don’t have to.”

“It’s important to replace the bandages often to keep the wound clean and free from infection.”

“Trust me, Mr. Wayne, it’s really unnecess—” Danny sighed. “You know what, fuck it.” He quickly began to unravel his bandaged torso, tossing the wad of gauze into the nearest trash can. Frowning at the neat stitches on his side, he turned to Bruce. “Do you have some scissors?”

“What are you—” Bruce bit down on his question. 

There was…nothing. The hole that Alfred sutured closed was just gone, the skin unmarred except for the rows of black thread crisscrossing over it. 

Danny chuckled. “You know, sometimes I wonder that myself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Who knows?” Danny shrugged, his hand outstretched. “Now how about those scissors?”

“Not until you answer my questions.”

Danny dropped his hand. “Well Mr. Wayne, while I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, it’s really none of your business.”

“As your father, I’d like to think it is.”

He laughed. “The seventeen years I grew up without a father say otherwise.”

Bruce flinched. “You cannot blame me for your mother’s lies.”

“No, you’re right. I can’t. But it doesn’t change the fact that, well, we’re basically strangers.” Danny slid out of his bed and took the scissors from a nearby tray. “I like you Mr. Wayne, I really do.” He began to carefully snip off the threads. “You’re a hero, you’re a good man, and Damian and mother love you—” he cut the last thread with an air of finality. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re privy to my life.”

Danny pulled out the stitches with careful slowness, and Bruce could see the wounds in his skin slowly knit itself back together.

Bruce’s breath hitched. “You’re a meta.”

“Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“I take it this relates to the green flecks in your blood.”

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.”

“Was this another one of Ra’s al Ghul’s experiments?”

Danny blinked owlishly, tilting his head. “Ra’s al Ghul wouldn’t have been so wary of me if it was. Now, is my shirt still salvageable by any chance? I don’t wanna impose on you anymore than I already have, so if I could just get my shirt back, I’ll be on my way.”

Bruce…Bruce didn’t really know what to think. He rubbed his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you stay for a bit longer? Damian’s been worried sick about you and it would hurt him if you left without saying goodbye.”

Danny paused. For a brief moment his face morphed into something pained; a cross between a grimace and wary resignation. And for all that youth clung to Danny’s features, there was a moment in time where he looked so old .

Then the moment passed, and Danny once again played the stubborn and petulant teenager that pouted when things didn’t go his way. “Fine,” he groaned with an exaggerated whine. With a huff he sat back down on the cot, legs drawn up and crossed in front of him. “I’ll stay, but only because Damian would bite my head off if I didn’t.”

“Alright.”

“And no more questions. If I get interrogated by the freaking Batman then I’m out .”

“Reasonable enough.”

Danny narrowed his eyes in suspicion but said nothing else, settling into his cot.

Bruce sat back down in front of the cave’s computer and began rifling through cases.

The silence between them stretched like a vast cavern.

Faintly, Bruce could make out Danny’s reflection from the monitor screen. His shoulders were rigid, arms painfully straight and clutching at his crossed ankles. The fringe of his black hair fell past his eyes and was aggressively swiped away.

Poison Ivy remained at large, but she had gone underground. A bit of groundwork revealed that she had gone the Synototech research facility because they were experimenting with suicide seeds— technology that’s internationally banned from field testing and commercial use. And considering the controversy of Synototech’s attempts to create a seed monopoly in agricultural sectors of third world countries by patenting its modified seeds, well… Batman was in no hurry to chase after Poison Ivy.

The bed Danny sat on creaked. Through the reflection, Bruce watched the boy slowly pad his way to Damian’s cot. Danny crouched down, hovering his hand over Damian’s head for a moment before gently running his fingers through the short strands.

“I rarely get to see him like this, you know?” Danny murmured.

Like what?  

Bruce held his tongue.

“He always has that scowl on his face,” Danny said, a smile in his voice. “Almost makes you forget what he looks like without it. He was really cute when he was a baby. All fat round cheeks and gummy smiles. He always loved it when people gave him attention.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched. He almost couldn’t imagine it. Damian, a bubbly bundle of joy. Damian, with chubby fists and the infectious bright laugher of a baby. Damian turning and crawling and stumbling through his first steps. Damian babbling sounds until he finally learned how to make sense of words and shape them to his will.

He wished—

If only he could have—

“I would have given anything in the world to have been there.”

Danny looked up. Bruce turned his chair to meet his gaze. 

“I know.”

With a soft groan, Danny settled himself on the ground beside Damian, idly petting his hair. “You know, when I was younger I had this crazy idea to take Damian and run away from the League. I thought about it a lot. Had a good couple of plans on how to take Damian out, too. It would have been so easy . I imagined grabbing Damian and scaling the compound walls. I’d strap him to my back and we’d make our way to the nearest village and somehow, somewhere, I’d be able to get a message out. And you’d be able to find us.”

“Did you ever try?” Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, the taste of the desert fresh on his tongue. Hot and dry and too full of possibilities that could have been.

“Not once. It was a stupid plan with more holes than swiss cheese and more risks than I wanted to put Damian through. Well, the League was risky, too, but that was something I knew. I could predict. Finding a way to contact you when all I knew about your identity was that you were The Batman and having to sit tight while the entire League of Shadows would be hell bent on catching us though?” He chuckled. “We wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance of holding out.”

“And so you stayed.”

“And so I stayed.”

“Will you go back to it?”

Danny shrugged. “Maybe? If mother asked for my help then I will, but the only reason I stayed at the League for as long as I did was because of Damian. Now that he’s out, there’s not much reason for me to stick around there.”

“And…if Damian asked you to stay here?”

There was something almost pitiful in the smile Danny sent him. “You have enough children, Mr. Wayne.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you are one of mine.”

“In this world.” 

Bruce blinked. “What?”

Danny startled, then frantically shook his head. “No— no, ignore that. I don’t…just forget I said anything.”

Before Bruce could press further, Danny pointed a finger at him.” Remember, you said that you wouldn’t interrogate me.”

Bruce huffed, conceding defeat. “I guess I did.”

For now.

Chapter Text

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

On instinct, Damian swung his fist up to uppercut Danny’s chin.

Danny dodged with ease. Years of being Damian’s alarm clock trained him for moments like this one. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey! Wait— aren’t you vegetarian now? Damn, uh…I don’t have a rhyme for that. Let’s see…Rise and shine, it’s cereal time?”

This time, it was a pillow headed for Danny’s face.

He dodged that, too.

Damian groaned, rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes with the heel of his palms. “Be quiet, will you?”

Danny clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “What a shame. I mean, I was planning on having breakfast with you, but if all you want to do is sleep then I guess I can just head out then.” He got to his feet, stretching the sore muscles of his back with an exaggerated groan and straightening the wrinkles of his borrowed shirt. “Well, see you when I see you—”

A hand grabbed onto his pant leg. Damian peered up at him, green eyes unusually bright. “Wait. You’re staying?”

Danny bent down, offering a hand out and pulling Damian to his feet. “Yep. Just for breakfast though. Your father’s butler is really convincing.”

Alfred came down earlier with a mug of freshly brewed heaven. The sweetness-to-bitterness ratio was divine on Danny’s tongue, his mouth blooming with warmth at the first sip. Danny practically lived on caffeine in the earliest days of his ghost hunting career— bitter black coffee and energy drinks poured into one dangerous cup that would have probably stopped his heart if he weren’t already dead in the first place. Might’ve killed his taste buds instead, considering he forgot how good coffee could taste until years down the line. And Alfred’s coffee? That was good with a capital G. 

“He’s your father, too,” Damian grumbled, voice still scratchy from sleep. He blinked a couple more times before squinting at Danny. “Are you healed?”

He lifted up the hem of his shirt to expose the smooth, unblemished skin. Damian sighed, hand rubbing his face. “That’s…good. Is— is that why you never—?”

“Yep.”

“I always wondered. Did grandfather know?”

“I was very careful to make sure Ra’s didn’t.”

“I see. And mother?”

Danny shrugged. There were times, especially when Danny was a child and still getting used to his smaller and scrawnier body and the unrelenting training of the League, when he would get hurt. A gash. A scratch. A cut. Something would inevitably hurt him and his healing factor would kick in and knit the broken flesh back together. There were a few moments where he thought Talia saw, but she never mentioned it. So Danny never brought it up.

“Come on,” Danny said. “I’m absolutely starving, and I have no idea where anything in this mansion is.”

“What have you been eating these past few weeks?” Damian asked as the two made their way out of the Batcave. 

“Food, duh.” At Damian’s rolled eyes, Danny laughed and ruffled his hair.  “Mother set me up with a bank account and an allowance, and gave me free reign over one of her apartments here in Gotham.”

“You could just live in the manor, you know. There’s plenty of room, and Alfred can make almost anything.”

“Pass.”

“You won’t even consider it?”

“I considered it plenty enough over the years. Decided that it just wasn’t for me.”

The darkness of the Batcave soon melted into the warmth of Wayne Manor, the early morning sun filtering through a nearby window.

 “It’s this way,” Damian said. Though as soon as he opened the doors to the dining room, he immediately slammed them shut, hands clutched onto the door handles. 

“What’s up?”

“Brother,” Damian whispered, voice grim. “I want you to promise me that you will not panic.”

“I— what?”

“Promise. Me.”

Danny blinked. “...Sure.” He drew a small ‘X’ over his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die and all that.”

With a heavy sigh, Damian pushed open the doors. And Danny…

Danny would rather be sticking a needle through his eye like right now. 

With the exception of two seats, the dining table was completely filled with members of the Wayne family. Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the table; Richard and Timothy were on either side of him; Jason beside Richard; Stephanie beside Timothy and followed by Cassandra. 

And all of them were looking at Danny .

He took a step back. 

Damian grabbed his wrist. “You promised ,” he hissed.

“I said I wouldn’t panic . Devil’s in the details, brat.”

“Good morning, Danny,” Bruce greeted, mug raised mid-sip. “It’s good of you to join us for breakfast.”

“Morning, Mr. Wayne.” Reluctantly, Danny let himself be dragged to the table, reluctantly sitting at the opposite end of Bruce with Jason to his left and Damian to his right. “Trust me, this…wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

Alfred set down a plate of fluffy pancakes, creamy scrambled eggs, and the honest-to-god most delicious looking pieces of bacon Danny had ever seen. If it weren’t for Danny’s own stubborn principles, he would’ve dug in already, manners be damned. Healing yourself took a lot of energy , ok?

He sniffed—and wow, that scent was to die for—and looked up from his plate, the corners of his mouth curled up in a wry grin. “Didn’t realize you guys spent so much time with each other.”

Jason leant back into his chair, bread knife spinning in dangerous circles in his hand. “We don’t. But you seem to have a talent for working miracles, eh shorty?”

“Whatever you say, Pepe le Pew.”

The knife dropped with a clatter, followed by the stifled giggles of Jason’s siblings. Stephanie let out a full blow guffaw.  

“Pepe le— Pepe le— Ha-HA!” She clutched her stomach. “Oh my god, that’s— is it cuz of the hair?”

“That too. There’s also the fact that he’s embarrassingly slow at knowing when to quit, and because he stinks at fighting.”

“ Really?” Jason bristled, jumping up from his chair to loom over Danny. “I could kick your ass six ways to Sunday, Hellboy.”

“You tried. You failed. Many times.”

They glared at each other, sharp-toothed grins a perfect mirror. 

And they laughed.

Jason plopped himself back down onto his chair, scooting it further in. “It’s good to see that you’re still kicking, Danny.”

“Right back atcha’, Jason.”

Mouth gaping like a confused fish, Timothy’s aborted attempts to get a word in stopped. He shook his head. “I— well, okay then. Breakfast?”

" Please. It’s taken, like, all my self-control not to drool over this spread.” Danny was about to ask Damian to pass the syrup bottle, then stopped. “Oh by the way, Mr. Wayne? That promise you gave me earlier? I’m extending that to everyone in this room.”

Richard eyed Danny and Bruce curiously. “Promise? What promise?”

Bruce cleared his throat, setting his mug down. “For the remainder of his stay, Danny has asked that we not ‘interrogate’ him.”

“Yep. Anything I think is too nosy, I’m out .” He winked at Damian. “I’ll make sure to say goodbye first, though, don’t worry.”

Mollified, Damian huffed and settled into eating breakfast, a marvelous plate of eggs florentine.

“So…” Richard began. “There’s a good chance you already know this but, hi, I’m Dick Grayson.”

“Pfft— oh, wait, you’re serious.” Danny’s automatic follow-up was ‘ your parents must’ve hated you’, but he knew enough about hero-types and seen enough media to know that most origin stories weren’t really parent-friendly. Wisely, he held his tongue.

Really, what was up with his nerves? You’d think that bleeding all over their medbay would mean that Danny would be, if not comfortable, then at least less willing to bolt out of here. He’s Danny-goddamned-Phantom. He shouldn’t be cowed by this. By breakfast. 

Breakfast with Damian’s family. 

Damian’s rich-as-hell and frighteningly intelligent vigilante family with connections to some of the most powerful beings in the universe.

“Well.” Danny clapped his hands together to distract him from his thoughts, smile strained. “I guess a restart in introductions is in order. Hello, I’m Danyal al Ghul, but I’d rather you call me ‘Danny’ since I worked really hard to get people to call me that. If you call me Danyal, I may or may not end up ghosting you. Yes, I’m Damian’s blood brother. Yes, I was part of the League of Shadows. No, I have no intention of going back there unless mother asks for my help. And lastly, yes, I did die. But that’s yesterday’s news, so get over it.”

And with that, Danny proceeded to stuff his face with eggs.

Stephanie nodded sagely. “I like him. Hi, Stephanie Brown, though I go by Steph, and you’ve got to tell me how you hide so well. I swear it was nearly impossible to catch you.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement. “Cass.” She signed. “Nice to meet you.”

Danny, mouth still full of eggs, signed back. “Hello. Damian told me a lot about you.”

“Tim Drake,” interjected Timothy with a nod of his head. “And forget the magic tricks— I need details. Embarrassing details about Jason and the Demon Brat.”

“Hey!”

“Brother, don’t you dare—”

Danny gulped down his eggs and washed them down with a mug of Alfred’s heavenly brew. “Sorry not sorry, but my lips are sealed.” Damian and Jason sighed. “Though they can be opened— for the right price.”

“Danny!”

Tim steepled his fingers together, eyes narrowed. “I am prepared to give you one million dollars.”

“No deal.”

“Ten million dollars.”

“Money’s meaningless to me, bird boy.”

“What do you want then?”

For a moment, Danny paused. His entire being caught off guard.

What do you want, then?

It occurred to him like a flash of lightning in the dark that Danny had no true answer to give. He had lived for a hundred years; he existed for many hundreds more beside that. Everything Danny Fenton wanted to do had been done thrice over and many more besides that. It’s why he was able to accept his final death in that world so easily— there was nothing left to regret. Nothing left for him there but a row of headstones and the wide blue sea. 

Danny Fenton had nothing else to want. So what did Danny al Ghul wish for?

He shrugged. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

In Bruce’s opinion, breakfast ended on a high note. Danny managed to thoroughly charm everyone in the family within the span of an hour, chattering about anything yet skillfully evading everyone’s subtle attempts at probing for more information. He would be able to fit seamlessly into their family, Bruce thought. Not as a vigilante but as brother. As a son .

But no matter what rapport might have been established between them, it wasn’t enough to convince Danny to stay for just a little while longer. 

Bruce gave Danny an open invitation to stop by the manor whenever he needed to. Jason did as well, saying that Danny could visit him any time whenever he wanted to spar. Danny gave both offers strange looks and politely declined them. “I can take care of myself, you know,” Danny would say.

When Danny decided it was time for him to part, he engulfed Damian in a tight embrace, whispering in hushed tones a message in that strange false-kryptonian dialect that Bruce had little luck in translating.

“What did he say to you?” he asked Damian.

“His address, for if I ever need to seek him out.” Damian looked down at his hands, opening and clenching them into fists. Then, he looked up at Bruce. “It’s strange.”

“What is?”

“I’ve known my brother my whole life. He practically helped in raising me alongside my mother. Todd was correct in his assumptions that while my brother is well-respected in the League, there were few that really ever knew him. I always thought that—despite our fights— I was still the one that knew him best.”

“But that changed.”

“Yes.” Damian’s lips thinned, a wrinkle forming between his brows. “I find that I’ve never really known my brother at all.”

Chapter Text

One of the windows in the Manor was open. 

Not an unusual occurrence. While the smog and the threat of experimental gasses from Gotham’s usual rogues (among other threats) meant that regular citizens usually kept their windows shut, Wayne Manor was far enough on the outskirts of the city that one could enjoy the fresh crisp breeze from the open window. At night, the ground would be dark enough that Martha Wayne made it a family tradition to rouse her family out of bed to spy at whatever constellations decided to make their presence known. 

But the seventh window on the third floor hadn’t been open in almost eighteen years. Not since Bruce had thrown away the key. Not since Alfred had sealed the doors shut and buried it under art-deco wallpaper.

Even when the truth came out— the truth of that painful secret Bruce thought time had scarred dull—Bruce hadn’t found the strength to open those doors.

If he was honest with himself, he still didn’t.

 That’s why he scaled the walls of the mansion instead and crawled in through the open window.

A thick layer of dust stained a gray streak on his dress pants as he passed through the window sill. He waved away a cloud of dust from his face with a soft grunt. 

“You know,” a soft voice drawled emanated from the far corner of the room, “for some reason I didn’t expect you to come in that way.”

Expected—yet at the same time unexpectedly— the voice belonged to Danny.

Bruce’s errant son.

(His son? His mind questioned. Can you call him that? )

(While Damian happily called himself Damian Wayne, puffing with pride every time someone commented on his similarities to his father, Danny had smiled and introduced himself as an al Ghul. Had called Bruce Mister as opposed to Father. Had gone through an entire life where Bruce was not there to watch him learn  to walk and talk and live and live and live— A life where Danny was not Bruce’s son but someone else’s son.) 

He straightened, shifting his posture to convey that he was non-threatening but alert. “Why are you here?”

Danny appeared to dismiss his presence entirely. Whether that would prove beneficial or otherwise to Bruce remained to be seen. The boy hummed, hands tracing the faded pastel-green wallpaper as he circled the room. “I was curious,” he said. A simple answer. Almost matter-of-fact. Bruce didn’t know if he expected otherwise. 

(He’s beginning to understand Damian, now. Danny was as easy to read as an open book written in an unbroken cipher.)

The boy pushed himself away from the wall, twisting between the scant few pieces of furniture that sat in the room. Every so often he’d stop, lift the white dust sheet high above his head to peer at the piece underneath. “Damian told me about this place once.” He dropped the sheet, staring at Bruce from the corner of his eye. “Don’t worry, he hasn’t been inside. I guess I was just curious about what was in here. I wanted to know…”

He threw off one of the sheets to reveal a toy chest. It was open. Had never closed, to Bruce’s memory. Bruce had filled that toy chest to the brim with all manner of things he thought that—

He halted that memory in its tracks and pushed it away. Watched as Danny reached down to pick up the first stuffed animal in the pile. It was a brown bear; There was a bow-tie around its neck from what little Bruce could see in the dark. What scant light there was from the moonlight shifted with the clouds that rolled by. 

“Does Damian know you’re here?” Bruce asked.

“No.” Danny turned the bear around in his hand. He played with its floppy limbs, patted down its rounded ears. “Does that make you angry?”

Bruce shook his head. “Though it…worries me that you don’t seem to realize how much he hurts when you leave.”

“You’re wrong.” Gingerly, Danny set down the bear back to where it belonged, keeping vigil over a child that never was. “I know all too well.”

“Do you?” Bruce pressed on. He steps deeper into the nursery, deeper into the shadows in hopes that he’ll scrub away one grain of truth from all of Danny’s half-truths and avoidances. “Then why do you do it?”

“He’s my brother. Doesn’t that explain enough?”

There’s something brewing behind Danny’s eyes that Bruce, for all his experience in reading people, could not piece together. So Bruce watches, instead. He’s good at that; watching, waiting, observing. He lets the heavy silence weigh down on the room because Bruce does not know what to say, and Damian and Jason had mentioned how much Danny hated silence.

But Danny doesn’t talk. He stared straight back. 

And so they watch each other. 

There’s a wrinkle between Danny’s brows that is so reminiscent of Damian’s. A high forehead set above Martha Wayne’s frosted blue and cutting eyes. The same slant of the lip that Thomas Wayne had whenever he read something unpleasant but couldn’t find the exact words to express why. In this boy—this son but not son — he saw the distorted facets of his family reflected back at him. Similar but so undeniably different.

Everyday he saw his parents’ faces reflected back in Damian’s features. Saw Talia’s grace and poise embedded into the very marrow of Damian’s bones. Happy to have Damian in his life despite their rocky beginnings; content to have a remainder of those he loved with him with Damian’s existence. 

It should not feel so different with Danny. 

It shouldn’t. 

But here, in this nursery, this monument to what might have been the beginnings of a future, all Bruce could see was the open wounds he thought he cauterized long ago. And Danny— this boy that might’ve been named Thomas, that might’ve been Bruce’s son first— was but the knife that reopened that wound. 

Danny raised an imperious brow— so like Talia in that moment. “I know what you’re doing. Psychology tricks 101, let your opponent fill silence with talk so they reveal more about themselves.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Do you see me as your opponent?”

“Reflecting answers too, huh?” He chuckled, crossing his arms beneath his sternum. “‘Opponent’ implies a level of challenge. No offense, but you just aren’t one.”

“Because you’re the best the League of Shadows has ever produced?”

His smile flattened into a sharp line. Bruce thought he could almost see a glint of teeth in the shadows. “Is that what Damian’s been telling you?”

“Do you deny it?” Bruce asked, an eternity later.

“No. Not necessarily. But Dami’s hardly unbiased on this.”

“Because he adores you?”

“Because he hated me.”

Bruce drew back, the answer catching him off guard. 

“Well— no, that’s not the right word for it,” Danny retracted. “Let’s call it resentment, then. It might be hard to believe considering how he’s acted around me ever since I came back, but trust me when I say that Dami was the furthest thing from the ‘adoring little brother’ back in the League.” He paused, considering something. “Unless you count getting ambushed and challenged to a duel once a week ‘adoring.’” 

That…sounded like Damian, alright. Even if the mental image of Damian treating Danny of all people like that was a little hard to imagine, given the boy’s string of clinginess towards his brother.

“I blame Ra’s for this whole one-sided rivalry,” Danny sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “You can probably guess why.”

Bruce could see it as plain as day. Ra’s al Ghul attempted to pit his two grandsons against each other, dripping poisonous words in Damian’s ears and letting him fester with that envy. He’d tout Danny as the golden child. The Ideal. The ever-moving standard that would make Damian scramble to keep up and eager to please.

“Damian spent all his life being told I was the best,” Danny muttered. “I wonder what he’d think if he knew that Ra’s considered me the League’s greatest disappointment.”

Then he paused, eyebrows scrunched, before alighting in realization. He gave a lopsided grin. “What do you know? You did get something out of me.”

“Do you?” Bruce prodded.

“Do I what?”

“Do you consider yourself the best or a disappointment?”

Danny stopped, hands braced on the covered furniture that stood between him and Bruce. “That depends. Disappointment requires expectations. Ra’s expectations for me were never-ending and impossible to fulfill without breaking myself first. Damian’s expectations for me shifted depending on what he wanted me to be at the time. And mother…” He trailed off, eyes darting away to the corner of the room. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You, though,” Danny hummed. “I probably disappointed you.”

“I could never be disappointed in you,” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You said so yourself: it requires expectations.”

“But didn’t you?” Danny yanked away the dust sheet between them, throwing a cloud of dust into the air and revealing an empty bassinet. The bedding remained untouched. Pristine. (Like the scarless expanse of Danny’s skin; unharmed by time, unmarked by history.)  “What is all of this, then, but unmet expectations?”

“Did you cry, Mr. Wayne, when you found out who I was?” he sneered. “You have a tendency to memorialize the dead. Put them up on a pedestal as a reminder of all the good they were, that they might’ve been. Display them as a constant reminder of your failures and all that’s wrong with the world and how you need to do better. Be better.”

With the precision of the fighter he was trained to be, Danny dug his sharp words into Bruce’s skin, clawing at old wounds with the intent to hurt. But old wounds were old wounds, and familiar in their pain. Bruce has heard much the same from Dick. From Tim. From Jason. Even Alfred. (He suspects he’ll never stop hearing it.)

  “You must’ve hated it when I came back and ruined any illusion you might’ve had about me." A shard of moonlight cut through the room, gleaming against the sharp sickle of Danny’s smile. “ Don’t you wanna know, Mr. Wayne? Don’t you want to know how much blood your dead baby had on his hands?” 

So instead of focusing on Danny’s words, Bruce concentrated on what Danny wasn’t saying. There were the stiff lines in his pseudo-nonchalant stance, the fidgeting of his hands, the subtle mechanical quality in which he spat his forced vitriol as if he’d practiced it over and over without pausing. Then there was the resolute way in which he’d lock eyes with Bruce, like if Danny poured enough conviction into his stare he’d find a way to superimpose his thoughts into Bruce’s mind. 

(“The thing about Danny,” Jason once said, “is that he’ll say a whole lot of nothin’ first before ever telling the truth.”)

A whole lot of nothing.

An open book that gives nothing away.

Looking back on their conversation, it was clear now how little Danny actually answered the questions that were directed at him. They were always deflected, turned around. Nothing he said ever gave a clear answer. 

Bruce tilted his head, assessing this interaction now in a different light. “Danny, why are you here?”

Danny paused for a fraction of a second before recovering, mouth stretched in a cheeky smile. “Your hearing’s already giving out, Mr. Wayne? Pretty sure I told you before: I was curious.”

“That might be part of the reason, but not the main one. For one thing, you’re skilled at stealth and infiltration. If you wanted to remain hidden, you could’ve. But instead, you tripped the alarm into the manor and alerted Alfred to your presence.”

A shrug. “Maybe I was just sloppy.”

“It’s a possibility. On the other hand: You’ve made it clear on multiple occasions that you wanted as little to no dealings with us as possible— Damian excluded, obviously. You don’t interact with us unless extenuating circumstances require it, or Damian begs you to. As far as I know, there’s no emergencies that would cause you to seek us, and if Damian was the one that asked you, he would already be here and not out on patrol.”

His smile faltered. “Maybe you caught me off guard.”

Bruce splayed his arms wide. “I’m unarmed and dressed in a ten-thousand dollar Armani suit—”

“Which means nothing coming from The Batman.”

“—and you’re a prodigious assassin with a ridiculous healing factor and possibly other meta-like abilities. I’m sure you could’ve hidden yourself or escaped long before we got to this point if you wanted to.”

“So what’s your point?”

“You didn’t come here out of some sudden curiosity about your past. You probably couldn’t care less about it. No— you came here because you needed to talk to me.”
Danny leaned forward, propping his arms against the bassinet. “I’d say that’s awfully narcissistic of you.” He cupped the side of his face with one hand. “But, well, you aren’t wrong.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, then. What do you want, Danny?”

“You’ll hate me when I tell you.”

“Danny.” And with all the sincerity and vulnerability he could muster, Bruce reached across the empty bassinet to place his hands over Danny’s shoulders, telegraphing his movements in advance so Danny would have plenty of time to move away if he chose to. He didn’t. “Danny, I have loved you since the moment Talia told me about you. No matter how many years go by, whether you’re dead or alive, that will never change.”

For a minute, Danny stalls. His face became blank, arms falling slack at his side as he took in Bruce’s words. Bruce could see the moment that it all registered; the confusion, the understanding, the uncertainty. Danny’s gaze dropped, the tips of his ears burning pink, expression sheepish. Here, Bruce was finally struck with the realization that this boy—his son — was still so…young. 

(It was easy to forget with Danny. His temperament always seemed to fluctuate between extremely childish to wise beyond his years. It was easy to forget, with the blood that stained his hands and his reputation, that Danny was still just a boy . One not even old enough to legally drink.)

Danny jerked back, the back of his hand covering his mouth. “That’s…ok, then. That’s nice. Um…good to know.” He raked his hands through his hair, eyes not meeting Bruce’s. “It’s— I’m not lying this time, you’re really gonna hate the answer.”

“Try me.”

“I don’t know.”

Bruce blinked.

“Haha…yeah, anticlimactic, ain’t it?” Danny chittered nervously. “I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, but I am terrible at planning ahead. I’ve always been more of a ‘go with the flow’ kind of guy. I’ve been going with the flow ever since I’ve been born , really.”

He pulls the loose threads at the hem of his t-shirt. “I stayed in the League because there was never a reason for me to leave it. Then Damian came along, and he was adorable , really, as a kid, even if he was a punk kid. Still is. I stayed because he needed me there—even if he doesn’t want to admit it—and now that he has you, he doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Danny, just because Damian is here with us, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want his brother.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the exact opposite of what he needs right now.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Damian feels guilty. About me, I mean. He thinks it's his fault that I died, and once he figured out that I could’ve upped and left the League at any point, he feels guilty for being the reason that I stayed. He shouldn’t, though. I don’t blame him. I’ve never blamed him, and I don’t know how to convince him otherwise, and now he’s gotten it into his head that to ‘fix’ everything, we all need to become one big happy family and that is the last thing I want.” He’s heaving by the end of it, and takes a minute to calm himself. “No offense, though. I’m sure your family is nice, and maybe if I gave it a chance I’ll eventually love being a part of it. But I don’t…I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be, sometimes.”

There was a part of Bruce’s heart that he thought died years ago in that hot desert sand. A part that shriveled and died from the grief of losing a child he wanted so, so much. And in the face of that child coming back to life—no matter how bloody or cruel or lost he became—how could he feel anything but heart-wrenching love?

Danny was his son.  

“That’s alright,” Bruce said. “You have a home here, if you want it. The door will always be open to you, even if you don’t want to think of us as family.”

Danny held his gaze, eyes bright blue and gleaming wide. Mouth dropped open in a small ‘oh’ as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You actually mean that, don’t you.”

Bruce held a hand over his heart. “You’re my son,” he said. Simple. Matter-of-fact. “Whether you call yourself a Wayne, an al Ghul, or just ‘Danny,’ whether you stay in Gotham or anywhere else in the world, I’ll care for you all the same.”

“Even if…even if one day I say that I want nothing to do with you guys?”

“Even then.” His gaze softened. “You don’t have to burn bridges just to stop Damian, you know? It might be hypocritical coming from me, but you’ll have better luck just talking it out with him.”
“I’ve tried,” Danny scoffed. “But I’m not…I’m not very good at it.”

“That’s ok. Be honest with him. He cares about you, Danny, he really does. He’ll understand.”

“I feel like all I do is hurt him.”

“He’s your brother, of course you will,” Bruce said, echoing Danny’s earlier sentiments. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make amends, nor does it mean that he’ll hate you forever.”

“Forever is a long time…” Danny let out a shaky breath, before straightening. He smiled. It was a small smile, hardly as bright as his other ones, but it felt real. He put out his hand. “I’ll try to talk to him again. Thank you, though, for putting up with me.”

Bruce shook Danny’s outstretched hand with a quiet sigh, accepting the line that Danny drew between them. “I’ll always be here, if you need me.” 

“Maybe I’ll take you up again on that, one day,” Danny laughed. And then, with a more contemplative look, said, “you know, I think…I think I would’ve liked to have had you as my dad.”

Suddenly, a bright flash of light engulfed the room. 

Bruce instinctively shielded his eyes, heart jumping to this throat as he suddenly lost Danny’s hand.

When the light disappeared, so too did Danny.

And like that moment, almost eighteen years ago, Bruce was left alone in an empty nursery.

The silence—the quiet— no longer seemed so oppressive. 

Bruce stares at the slip of paper Danny pressed into his hands and raises it towards the moonlit window. Two lines: an address and a phone number.

With a soft smile, he turns from the window, crossing the room in a few short strides. 

Bruce turns on the lights—

—and unlocks the door.