Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne has never been good at self-care. He wouldn’t describe himself as being hopelessly bad at self-care, but Alfred would. Alfred, aka Bruce Wayne’s long-suffering butler, has been taking care of Bruce since he was a little boy, and as much as Bruce is a full-grown man that literally is responsible for the lives and safety of an entire city, he’s always put his basic needs last. That’s the reason he’s sprawled out on his bed with a single piece of gauze covering the hastily stitched up stab wound. The barely patched up wound is right under his ribcage, on the right-hand side. On a normal day, Alfred would have already tended to the haphazard stitches and then made a warm bowl of soup for his poor Bruce.
Today is not that day.
Today, Alfred is on the other side of the world, soaking up the sun on a remote tropical island, most likely sipping a pina colada on a sandy beach. It’s Alfred’s annual vacation and as much as Bruce loves Alfred’s invaluable presence in Wayne Manor, the poor man needs a vacation at least once a year. Before leaving, Bruce assured his kindly caretaker that he could take care of himself and his three kids for two weeks. How hard could it be?
Bruce had been so sure of his skills that when his Justice League teammates teased him about how long he would last before tearfully begging Alfred to come home, Bruce bet them all that he could make it the entire two weeks without a single phone call for help. Green Arrow made it an official bet and Flash set the rules. Bruce is a billionaire so it wouldn’t be fair for the bet to involve money. Flash set the terms as, “If we win, you do all of our chores for a month, and if you win, we’ll attend your lame, boring meetings and listen to your dry-ass PowerPoint presentations for a month without complaining.”
And that’s how it all began.
Bruce looks up at his bedroom ceiling and grunts. The stab wound stings, he’s hungry, and he has a nagging feeling he’s supposed to be doing something important right now. This is going to be a long two weeks.
His eyes are about to drift closed, but something catches his eye. On the wall behind him there’s a giant shadow looming over him. The shadow has the familiar silhouette of his Batsuit. He shifts quickly, causing a spike of pain to go along with his spike of panic. Did someone follow him home after patrol and breech Wayne Manor security? Did he not notice because he was compromised from his wound? Does this mystery shadow belong to a murderous doppelganger of a Batman from a different dimension?
The silhouette grows larger, signaling that the intruder is approaching, and the sheer size of the shadow drowns Batman in shade. The looming threat steps into the dim moonlight peeking through a crack in his curtains. Bruce takes a look at the stranger and realizes quickly that the threat is not a threat at all, and the stranger isn’t a stranger either.
The shadow monster is Bruce’s eldest, wide-eyed son, Dick. Little Dickie is wearing his child-sized onesie pajamas; the one that has a hood that’s shaped like Batman’s cowl. Dick usually wraps his blanket around his shoulders to make a “Batman cape”, but he’s cape-less tonight.
Dick yawns, flicks on the light switch, and walks to the closet.
“Wake up, Dad. We have to leave for the gala in like ten minutes, so you gotta get dressed.”
Bruce groans. That’s what he forgot. He ended patrol early, not just because he got stabbed, but also because the Gotham Police Department Benefit Gala is tonight, and Bruce is require to attend with his family.
Dick plucks a hanger off the rack and one of Bruce’s many tuxedos is hanging from it. His son carries the suit to the foot of the bed and frowns, “Get up, Sleepyhead. Get dressed now.”
“You’re not dressed either,” Bruce counters.
“I’m Robin. I can get dressed in less than thirty seconds.”
Dick pulls Bruce’s arm, forcing him to sit all the way up. The motion pulls at the stitches and Bruce grunts.
“Daaaad! C’mon,” Dick whines. “Get. Dressed. Now.”
“This suit is wrinkled. I can’t wear it.”
“Your face is wrinkled,” Dick shouts back. Dick’s arms are crossed so he means business.
Bruce tries not to laugh because it will only make Dick angrier, but before he can do anything, another child appears in his room. This one is dressed in a suit, but barely. Little Jason’s shirt is untucked, his collar is open, and the tie around his neck is hanging on for dear life. The boy also isn’t wearing shoes. Jason’s socked feet pitter-patter along the floor as Bruce’s middle child shuffles over to Bruce’s dresser. Jason reaches into the sock drawer and pulls out a pair of black dress socks. He whirls around lightning fast – a contrast to all his labored movements leading him to the sock drawer – and throws the paired sock ball at Bruce.
Bruce easily catches the projectile with one hand. Jason’s face fills with disappointment before he giggles.
“Aw man. I thought I was gonna get you that time, Old Man.”
Bruce reaches for Jason and when his son is close enough, he ruffles his hair.
“Why are you boys in my room?
Dick is trying to shove one of Bruce’s feet into a sock.
“Cuz you won’t get dressed unless we do it for you,” Dick says, successfully getting Bruce’s foot in the sock. “Alfie put me in charge of you. He said you’re a human disaster and incapable of taking care of yourself, so I’m here to help you get dressed.”
“I can absolutely take care of myself. In fact – .”
Bruce is interrupted by the sound of stumbling steps coming from his last remaining child. Little Timmy is carrying a bowl of steaming hot soup in his hands and the way that the liquid is sloshing from one edge of the bowl to the other makes Bruce take a sharp breath. Tim is the only member of the house that’s fully dressed, but his dress shoes are making his steps far too unsteady, especially for soup carrying activities.
“Hi Dad,” Tim says adorably, as if he isn’t seconds away from scalding himself. “I brought you soup. When Mom and my other dad used to take me to galas, the food was always gross and I’d never eat it, and I was always really, really hungry after it was over, so I made you chicken noodle soup so you won’t be hungry. Jason helped me boil it.”
Tim scrunches up his nose like he’s about to sneeze and Jason rushes in and grabs the bowl of soup.
“Timmy, you were supposed to leave the soup in the kitchen.”
“I wanted to help,” Tim says, eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t spill any of it. I promise. Even when I went up the stairs. My foot slipped on the last step, but I didn’t spill any of it, Jay.”
Visions of Child Protective Services coming to take Tim away flash before Bruce’s eyes, and he has to shake his head to push away that thought. Timmy isn’t hurt. Jason isn’t hurt. Dick isn’t hurt. All of his boys are fine. He’s doing a great job taking care of the family. He’s a pro. He’s got this.
He pats Dick on the head.
“Thanks for the wakeup call, Dickie. Help Jay get dressed and I’ll meet you and your brothers at the car.”
Dick nods as if he just got orders from Batman.
As the kids scamper out of the room, Bruce thanks Tim for the soup. Tim looks back at Bruce with cloudy eyes, but Jason hooks an arm around Tim’s shoulders and the little guy’s face lights up.
When Bruce is alone, he slaps a new dressing over his wound, and he puts on his Brucie Wayne suit. The shirt really is wrinkled, but he’ll keep his suit jacket closed and no one will notice. He adds ironing to the list of things he’s grateful that Alfred does for him.
Bruce reaches the garage, and his three little helpers are in a fury of activity. The new family puppy, Ace, is howling. Dick is petting the fuzzy German Shepherd’s fur and shouting over Ace’s whimpering howls.
“Try to stay calm, Ace. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. We can help you.”
Jason is pacing back and forth, and Tim is frantically talking to someone on his phone.
Tim is the first to notice Bruce is in the room. Tim looks up. His eyes are wide, and he shoves the phone in Bruce’s direction.
“Dad, I called 911. I told them that Ace swallowed a really big Lego and I think he’s going to die. They want to speak to you.”
Bruce takes the phone and a woman is talking nervously on the other end.
“Mr. Wayne? Your son Tim has informed me that one of your other sons, named Ace, has swallowed a very large Lego brick and it may be lodged in his throat. Emergency services have been dispatched. I’ve been told that Ace is only a few months old. Is the child turning blue, or making any wheezing sounds?”
Bruce clears his throat, “Ace isn’t my son, he’s the family dog.”
“Oh. Oh, thank goodness. I thought he was a baby. I’ll cancel the ambulance. Is the puppy alright?”
“He’s making quite a bit of noise, which is good because it means he’s breathing, but just to be safe I’m taking him to the emergency vet right away.”
Tim bites his lip as Bruce ends the call and hands him back his phone.
“Are you mad at me?” Tim asks, looking like he’s moments away from bursting into tears. “Did I do the wrong thing? I’m so sorry.”
Bruce kneels down and cups his hand around Tim’s cheek.
“I’m not mad, Sweetheart,” Bruce reassures him. “We just need to have a talk when we get back about when to call 911 and when to call me first.”
Tim nods, but Bruce can’t help but notice how warm the kid’s cheek feels. Bruce moves his hand up to Tim’s forehead, pushing under the long fringe of bangs, and it definitely feels like Timmy has a fever.
Bruce is about to ask Tim if he’s feeling alright but Ace starts barking at full volume and interrupts Bruce’s train of thought.
Dick is struggling to carry the puppy in his arms. He shouts over Ace, “Dad, we gotta get in the car.”
Tim gives Bruce a shrug and a very unconvincing, “I’m okay,” before hopping into the back seat with Dick and Ace.
Bruce makes a mental note to check on Tim’s fever later.
He starts the car. One hand is adjusting the rearview mirror while he backs out of the garage, when he hears Jason moan from the passenger seat. He glances over at Jason for a second, while the car rolls backwards, and the poor boy looks miserable.
Jason has one hand wrapped around his stomach and he’s leaning forward as much as his seatbelt will allow. His skin looks sweaty, and his face is tinted a dangerous shade of green.
“Jaylad?”
Bruce puts his foot on the brake.
Jason shakes his head and mumbles, “We need to get to the vet. Just drive fast.”
Bruce follows orders, driving at Batmobile speed.
Bruce has limited experience with his sons when they’re sick, but he’s a detective, so he’s observed a few crucial things about each of the boys.
Dick turns into a puppy dog when he’s sick. He whines and wants to be cuddled and demands to be taken care of until he gets better. He only walks when absolutely necessary, otherwise, he demands to be carried piggyback style. He’s the definition of dramatic.
Tim is a quiet little guy on a regular basis, so the one time he got a cold, he tried to ghost everyone and disappear into his room. Bruce and Alfred found him coughing under a mountain of his blankets, teary-eyed and apologetic for being an inconvenience and promising to do better in the future. When Bruce was finally able to calm Timmy down, the boy literally melted into Bruce’s hug. For the remainder of the cold, Tim would ask Alfred or Bruce frequently for hugs and the two were more than happy to comfort the little guy.
Sick Jason is a completely different story. Jason has years of living in poverty under his belt, and not being able to eat – often for multiple days in a row – so when Jason got a stomach virus shortly after living in Wayne Manor, it was a horrible experience. He tried as hard as he could not to throw up, even to the point that his whole body was shaking with the strain. Too much physical comfort scares Jason, so Bruce’s only option was to rub Jason’s back as lightly as possible while the poor guy curled up on himself next to the toilet. Alfred provided a steady stream of ginger ale deliveries, hoping that it would settle Jason’s stomach, but eventually after hours, Jason tensed, grabbed Bruce’s hand, and finally threw up.
Bruce shudders at the memory and he’s starting to get worried as he reviews the immediate situation. Jason is about to either throw up in the car, or pull a muscle in his abdomen trying not to. Tim has a high fever, exactly how high is yet to be determined. Ace has a Lego lodged in his throat that might require surgery. And calling Alfred isn’t an option.
Bruce snaps back to attention when he hears Dick yelling.
“Ace, get down. You can’t stick your head out of the window. It’s not play time. You need to lay down. Down, boy! Timmy, help me hold Ace down.”
Ace barks loudly in protest as the two boys wrestle to get Ace to stop clawing against the closed window.
By the time they get to the parking lot of the vet Jason is hugging his stomach and rocking back and forth, Ace is barking at decibels high enough that it’s painful, and Tim is covering his ears and covered with a slick sheen of sweat. His suit jacket is off and his white dress shirt is saturated.
Bruce uses his entire arsenal of Batman skills to stay calm. He needs to isolate each crisis and solve them one at a time.
Start with the closest in proximity.
He looks over at Jason, but the boy already has the car door open and is sprinting toward the building. Bruce looks in the rearview mirror and sees Dick has also exited the car and is running in the same direction as Jason, with Ace in his arms. Tim is still in the backseat, looking at him with glazed over eyes.
Bruce shuts off the car, scoops Timmy into his arms, and runs after his kids.
Jason is nauseous and stumbling, and Dick is carrying a puppy that weighs almost as much as he does, so even with his kids having a head start, he almost catches up to them.
Timmy rests his head against Bruce’s shoulder.
“I don’t feel good,” he says softly.
“I know, Timmy. Just rest on my shoulder.”
Bruce pushes the door open and the bell over the door chimes. Dick is at the front desk, filled with panic.
“I need help. Ace, swallowed a Lego and he’s trying to be brave like it doesn’t hurt, but I think he’s dying!” Dick starts crying hysterically, letting out the tears that he was holding back during the car ride.
Bruce feels Tim tense in his arms before whimpering, “Ace is going to die?”
Two of his sons are sobbing at this point.
Bruce tries to maneuver Timmy on his hip so he can comfort both boys, but the unmistakable sound of retching freezes Bruce in his tracks.
Bruce turns just in time to see Jason fall to his knees and start projectile vomiting all over the floor.
Ace leaps out of Dick’s arms, because Ace’s job is actually the family’s comfort dog, but when Dick sees Jason vomiting violently, he makes a panicked sound from the back of his throat and starts throwing up too.
All Bruce’s sons are crying, two of them are throwing up all over the floor, and Ace is howling at a deafening volume, and Bruce… Bruce needs help.
He can’t call Alfred – not just because Bruce would lose the bet, but poor Alfred deserves at least one relaxing break per year. That means that Bruce’s choices are limited. He sighs and whispers under the sound of screaming, crying, barking, and vomiting.
“Clark. I need your help.” And then, just to make it official so Superman’s superhearing will tune into the cry for help, Bruce swallows his pride and adds, “Help me, Superman. I need you to save me.”
In less than a second, the bell chimes over the door and Clark walks inside.
“Howdy. I was just in the neighborhood and – whoa. Looks like you can use some help.”