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Bruce’s heart was throbbing.
No one could tell, his face wasn’t showing it. From an outward perspective, one might think him apathetic. He’s trained his face to give nothing away, and once again it was working in his favor. If Damian knew what he was feeling, he probably wouldn’t have the sense to ramble at the dinner table. He’d pause to give his father a confused inspection, which Bruce is glad they can both forgo.
Damian wasn’t doing anything unusual today, he was merely in attendance for dinner, but Bruce was itching to cease the meal altogether. He wasn’t even close to done with his meal, and neither was Damian. However, the urge to swallow Damian up with affection was killing him. He didn’t know why he was having such urges—let alone why they’d only begun just recently. He couldn’t recall ever having an undying desire to squeeze Damian in his arms prior to his death, but something had changed in him. After he’d been pulled back into the present, he started to pay more attention to Damian. While there was nothing outstandingly different about Damian himself, Bruce found that he was endeared.
Damian didn’t even have to do anything. He could just stand there, and Bruce would find seven different things he liked about him.
“Father,” Damian called out to him, having just taken a bite, “are you even listening?”
Bruce looked at him, having barely touched his own food, and noticed the way his son’s cheeks puffed out.
His heart clenched and he closed his eyes. He filtered out his emotions through his hand, gripping his fork with a tightened hold.
He flexed his fingers before releasing his strength.
He’d been semi-listening, truth be told. He’d probably have given Damian his full attention if he hadn’t been fantasizing about having him curled up in his arms or tucked away into a standing embrace. He was having a difficult time staying away from such fantasies. Every time he looked at Damian, his brain went full lizard mode.
“Sorry, Damian. I’m not feeling well,” Bruce decided to lie. “I’m going to call it quits. I need some time to think.”
Bruce wiped his chin with a napkin before moving to stand up.
Alfred gave him an odd look. Bruce purposefully ignored him.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he said.
Alfred’s disapproval could be felt from the hallway as Bruce exited the room. Bruce was already regretting his decision, but he couldn’t think straight when Damian was sitting so close to him. He needed time to put his thoughts in order—to actually come up with some kind of plan. If he didn’t want to scare Damian, tactics needed to be invented.
Bruce entered his office and sat down in his chair. He stared at his desk and let himself think. It felt as if no time had passed when Alfred entered too. He hadn’t even knocked, which was a rare occurrence.
“You need to apologize to your son. He’s been looking forward to this meal all day and you’ve disappointed him immensely.”
Whatever Bruce had been expecting, it hadn’t been that.
“You rarely spend time with him outside of patrol hours. He needs his father.”
Bruce felt a pang of guilt.
“I didn’t know that he’d been looking forward to it,” he said, as if that would excuse him, “and I didn’t intend to disappoint him.” The idea of disappointing him wasn’t usually so sour, but Bruce now felt like a lemon that had been squeezed dry. His poor baby. “I just needed to get my thoughts straight. I can’t be around him like this.”
Alfred looked unimpressed.
“Well, I didn’t think you intended to disappoint him, since you’re as blind as your namesake,” Alfred intoned, referring to Bruce's alter ego, which had Bruce wincing because ouch, “but you must make it up to him.”
Bruce took a breath. “Yes, of course,” he agreed. He must have done it too quickly because Alfred was gazing at him critically, having a reasonable spark of doubt. Bruce continued, “I’ll approach him after I have everything sorted out.”
Alfred’s frown was even deeper, which meant Bruce’s answer hadn’t been the correct one.
“No, you will get out of this office, and approach him this very instant,” Alfred commanded.
Bruce inwardly panicked because he hadn’t planned a strategy yet and if he approached Damian like this—what would stop him? Nothing, he feared. “I just need a moment to compose myself. Five minutes at least,” he begged his pseudo father. It was strange how he felt as if he were twelve again, cringing away from Alfred’s lecturing glare. “Five minutes, and then I’ll find him.”
Alfred considered his proposal before sighing and nodding curtly. He allowed Bruce his compromise, even if it wasn’t entirely aligned with his vision.
“Five minutes,” Alfred agreed, turning towards the door, “but no longer than that.”
Alfred walked out and Bruce let out the breath he’d been holding. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Five minutes, he’d said. Why hadn’t he asked for ten? That wasn’t enough time to come up with a plan—to be prepared. How was he going to approach Damian like this? He feared he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and that Damian would be in for a shock of his life. He’d probably recoil away from him and run in the opposite direction. He’d escape to Blüdhaven and camp in Dick’s apartment for a few days.
Bruce spent the next five minutes agonizing over the future until he realized his time was up, and that he hadn’t conjured a plan at all. Internally wincing, he stood up and swallowed dryly. He exited the room and was unsurprised to find Alfred waiting for him in the hall. He’d most likely stuck around to make sure Bruce held to his word, even though he knew he often did.
Bruce passed him and began his reluctant search for his son. All the while, images began popping up in his head. He tried to wave them away with a metaphorical hand, pushing them into a corner of his mind. He mentally recited textbook passages and solved mathematical equations. He went over memorized information of historical Gotham sites. He tried to recall the lyrics to his mother’s old lullaby, only to abruptly cease when he found Damian in the living room.
Bruce swallowed again. “Damian?” He rounded the couch. “Can we talk?”
He paused when he realized Damian had curled up in himself. Bruce stared at him for a good second. Everything he’d been trying to occupy his mind washed away like chalk in the rain, and for a moment his psyche was blank. He gazed upon Damian and listened to his soft breaths. His chest expanded with warmth, and then his mind was torn apart with an invasion of images. Bruce’s fingers twitched, and he tried to fight his own thoughts. He was having an internal battle—one that was full of gunfire and explosions. He was fighting a war in the trenches, hiding from enemy fire. His own thoughts, in this case.
Don’t disturb him, Bruce thought to himself, don’t disturb him, don’t disturb him, don’tdisturbhim.
The impulsive thoughts send electricity down his arms, and then his limbs move without his permission. He dipped one underneath Damian’s legs. The other, he braced against his son’s back. Carefully, he lifted the boy off the couch. His heart was beating against his rib cage, excited and fast.
Bruce could barely believe it, but he was actually holding his son.
Bruce stared at him for a good minute, melting like plastic over a stove burner.
What am I even doing? He’d throw a fit if he was awake!
Bruce’s body didn’t listen as he settled them both back onto the couch. This time, he made sure Damian was cradled in his lap, safely tucked against his body. Bruce took a moment to examine his face, finding himself admirative of Damian’s every feature. He was obsessed. This was his boy—his flesh and blood.
He fit wonderfully in Bruce’s arms, like a puzzle piece he’d been missing for years.
Bruce sighed at the thought, almost dizzy with affection. The dizziness abruptly disappeared when Damian stirred in his arms. He moaned and rolled his head. Bruce panicked. “Shh, shh, shh,” he hushed, desperate to lull his son back to sleep, so he could hold him longer, “go back to sleep.”
Damian cracked open an eye to gaze at his father. Bruce’s heart stopped, and he realized everything was over. Damian would jump out of his arms—accuse him—point fingers—swear—anything that would make Bruce feel worse about acting on his desires.
Bruce didn’t realize he wasn’t breathing until Damian had finished studying him, closing his eye to lull himself back to sleep. If he’d been fully awake, maybe he wouldn’t have made the same decision. Instead, he relaxed in his father’s arms and made a sleepy noise that squeezed Bruce’s heart.
Bruce waited until Damian was fully settled in sleep before he entertained the idea of moving. Draping himself across the couch, he rested Damian on his chest. With Damian’s cheek rested against his heart, Bruce felt whole. He was gleeful, even.
Damian murmured in his sleep.
Can’t believe he’s mine, Bruce almost purred, but the closest thing he could do was rumble. I’m so lucky.
He closed his eyes and smiled, content.