Work Text:
Bruce sat in the study, staring absently into the flickering fire of the hearth. It was a light staring as he nursed his glass of bourbon, relishing in the faint and not-so-faint sounds of his rowdy children down the hall. His eldest’s shouts of excitement followed by the annoyed grumbling of his third son, and the snide comments of his youngest accompanied the sounds of footfalls.
Bruce sat there reflecting in love and heartache at his wonderful family, acutely aware of who was missing from the sounds of family. Jason had not come to the manor for the movie night Dick had coerced Tim and Damian into. Cassandra and Stephanie had been traveling Europe with Barbara, a girl’s weekend that turned into a weeklong vacation (courtesy of Stephanie’s spontaneity and Cassandra’s and Barbara’s willingness to humor her). Duke had opted to stay at a classmate’s dorm to work on a project.
Bruce knew Alfred was in the kitchen, preparing snacks for his charges, grown and not, and his mental checklist of the members of his family left him in a daze of warmth. Not everyone was here, no. But as he stared into the fire, Bruce was so, so grateful for the large family that filled his life with excitement. He thanked every deity and force of nature that he was blessed with his children when he had at once had no one but Alfred.
With just him and Alfred, the manor was cold, and plain. It could never be plain in decor. His ancestors had accumulated far too much for it to be truly plain, and Alfred’s diligence and sense of propriety had kept that true. It was plain in a sense that Bruce knew intellectually it was home, but it had never
felt
like home since his parents had died.
That had changed with Dick, and Barbara, and then Jason, and Tim, and Stephanie, and Cassandra, and Damian, and Duke. The manor had been given life and Bruce was
home
.
Bruce marveled again, at the children that entered his life. And yet, he glanced at a manila folder on the table beside him, and his heart ached at the contents.
He did not want to open the folder again. But he knew very well what he would see if he did.
A black-haired, blue-eyed woman of partial Asian heritage would stare up at him. She had her hair in a single bun, with black stud earrings, a pink shirt, and blue jeans and a jean jacket. She stood smiling in front of what the social media post had captioned in French as her family’s bakery.
Were he to open the folder, and see that picture, he would be reminded of another woman. He would be reminded of the starry Parisian night sky and the lithe silhouette against the riverine lamps. He would recall the smell of the roses he held and the vanilla of her perfume. He would feel the chill of the crisp air and the tender warmth of her hand as she pulled a young and brooding man along for an adventure.
He would remember waking in his hotel room the morning after, to find a note in beautiful French thanking him for the night, and another message in Cantonese wishing him well on finding himself.
He had not thought about that night for a long time.
Were he to open the folder, he would also see a name. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. He would see countless family photos associated with that name. In all of them, Marinette was happy, and often in the arms of her Papa while the woman from his memories stood beside them, a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
Marinette bore some similarities to the man she wrote as Papa, but Bruce saw plenty more of his own, and some of those were shared to the large and jovial man.
Bruce’s heart was torn. Here was a child of his blood, another child he had not known about. He longed for a connection with her. She was his child. But then, he came to himself.
She was an adult woman, a woman Jason’s age, and she had grown up in a normal and happy home. One that seemed unburdened with drama or the vulnerability of being associated with the Wayne name. A woman he could not, in good conscience, endanger by contacting her.
Bruce again counted his blessings for his many sons, his daughter, and his pseudo-daughters. He got up from the chair, grabbed the folder, and threw it into the fire. He watched as the paper curled and smoldered and burned until it was ash.
He already had a happy and full home and so did she. If she found him herself, he would welcome her. He did not need to upturn her home to appreciate his own.