Archive of Our Own ^beta

1. Dick | Age 9

The first time Bruce found Dick in his bed, the boy was trembling from head to toe. It had been six months since his parents' death, and the nightmares showed no signs of relenting. At first, Bruce thought he was imagining the soft, muffled sobs piercing the quiet of the manor. His nights were often plagued with his own demons, leaving him in a perpetual state of light sleep. But when he opened his eyes, the sound wasn’t coming from his mind — it was real.

Bruce turned his head toward the door. In the dim glow of the moonlight spilling through the large windows, he saw the small figure standing hesitantly in the doorway. Dick’s shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as though trying to keep from falling apart.

“Dick?” Bruce’s voice was quiet but firm, instantly cutting through the boy’s fragile composure.

Dick startled but didn’t move from where he stood. Bruce could see him tense, his grip on himself tightening as though bracing for reprimand. But Bruce didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t tell the boy to go back to his room. Instead, he slowly sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp.

The soft light illuminated Dick’s tear-streaked face. His cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes were rimmed with red, glistening with unshed tears. He bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

Bruce didn’t press him. He had learned by now that pushing too hard only made Dick retreat further into himself. Instead, he stayed where he was, watching and waiting. After a moment, Dick finally shuffled forward, his steps tentative.

“I…” Dick began, his voice a hoarse whisper. He trailed off, his gaze flickering to the floor. “I had another nightmare.”

Bruce nodded, his expression softening. He had been expecting this.

“You don’t have to ask,” Bruce said, his voice low but steady. He shifted to one side and pulled the covers back, creating space for the boy.

For a moment, Dick hesitated, his small hands fidgeting at his sides. Then, without a word, he climbed onto the bed. He moved with the kind of cautiousness that only came from fear — not of Bruce, but of being rejected. Bruce saw it in the way Dick kept his movements small and his eyes downcast, as though he were waiting for the invitation to be rescinded.

When Dick finally settled under the blankets, he curled in on himself, pressing his face into Bruce’s side. He clung to Bruce like a lifeline, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Bruce’s sleep shirt.

Bruce froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. This wasn’t something he was accustomed to. He had no frame of reference for comforting a grieving child. Alfred had tried in Bruce’s childhood, but there was only so much you could do in that situation, and his mission had consumed his adulthood.

But as Dick’s small body trembled against him, Bruce let instinct take over. He placed a steady hand on the boy’s back, his touch firm but gentle. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer platitudes or promises he couldn’t keep. He simply stayed.

The minutes stretched on in silence, broken only by the muffled sound of Dick’s sobs. Gradually, the boy’s breathing began to even out, his grip on Bruce’s shirt loosening. But even as he fell into an uneasy sleep, the tension in his body didn’t fully fade.

Bruce stayed awake long after Dick had quieted. He could feel the dampness on his shoulder where Dick’s tears had soaked through, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to.

When morning came, neither of them mentioned it.

Dick woke first, his face pale but calm as he pulled away and sat up. Bruce pretended to be asleep, giving the boy a moment to collect himself. When Bruce finally stirred, he acted as though he hadn’t noticed the tear-soaked shoulder of his shirt. Dick didn’t apologize or try to explain, and Bruce didn’t ask him to.

It became a pattern after that.

The nightmares didn’t stop, but Dick stopped hesitating when he sought out Bruce in the middle of the night. Each time, he would stand in the doorway for only a moment before climbing into the bed without a word. Bruce would shift over to make room, pull the covers back, and wait for the boy to settle.

Some nights, Bruce found himself wrapping an arm around Dick’s shoulders, anchoring the boy as he shook and cried. Other nights, Dick would bury his face in Bruce’s side and cling to him like he was the only thing keeping the nightmares at bay.

It wasn’t always easy. There were nights when Bruce’s own memories would rise to the surface when the weight of his own trauma made it hard to be what Dick needed. But he never turned the boy away. He couldn’t.

He saw too much of himself in Dick — the same raw grief, the same determination to keep moving forward despite the weight of it all. But where Bruce had been alone, Dick wasn’t. Bruce had promised himself that much.

There were moments during the day when Bruce wondered if he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t sure he was equipped to raise a child, let alone a grieving one. He worried that his attempts at comfort might be doing more harm than good.

But then there were the mornings when he woke to find Dick still curled up beside him, his face peaceful for the first time in days. There were the rare moments when Dick would give him a small, tentative smile, a glimpse of the light that had once defined the boy.

It was those moments that kept Bruce going.

Over time, the nightmares became less frequent. Dick began sleeping through the night more often, though there were still nights when he would find his way to Bruce’s room. By then, it had become routine.

Bruce never said anything about it, never made a big deal out of it. He simply made space for the boy and let him take what he needed.

And slowly, bit by bit, Dick began to heal.

He started laughing again, the sound hesitant at first but gradually growing more confident. He began to find joy in the little things — a sparring session with the Titans, a new acrobatic routine, a good movie.

Bruce watched it all with quiet pride, though he rarely said the words aloud. He wasn’t good at expressing his emotions, but he hoped Dick understood.

There were still hard days, of course. Days when the weight of the past seemed to drag Dick down. Days when Bruce felt his own resolve falter under the strain of it all. But they faced those days together, and somehow, that made them bearable.

Years later, when Dick had grown into a young man and their relationship had shifted from guardian and ward to something more akin to partners, Bruce would think back to those early nights.

He would remember the weight of Dick’s small body pressed against his side, the dampness of his shirt from the boy’s tears, the quiet determination in Dick’s eyes as he fought to reclaim his life.

And he would remember the unspoken bond they had formed in those moments — a bond forged not out of obligation, but out of love.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always easy. But it was theirs.

And for Bruce, that was enough.

2. Jason | Age 13

Jason’s face was pale, a stark contrast to the smudges of dirt and blood that Alfred hadn’t been able to completely scrub off before patching him up. His arm was cradled in a sling, a reminder of his latest encounter with a group of Two-Face’s thugs. The fight hadn’t gone as planned. Jason had come out alive, but bruised, battered, and with a dislocated shoulder that Alfred had meticulously reset while Jason clenched his jaw and tried not to cry out.

The painkillers helped, but only so much. By the time the grandfather clock in the hall chimed three in the morning, Jason was still awake, staring at the ceiling in his room, teeth gritted against the ache that pulsed in his arm and shoulder. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed the fight: the way one of the thugs had grabbed him, the crack of his shoulder popping out of place, the flash of anger and fear he’d felt as he struggled to keep up.

The adrenaline from the fight had long since worn off, but the memory of it lingered, sharp and raw. There had been a moment, just before Bruce arrived, when Jason wasn’t sure he’d make it out. And now, as he lay in bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, that moment played on repeat in his mind.

Jason tried to ignore it, rolling onto his side—then regretting it immediately when his shoulder protested with a sharp jolt of pain. He groaned softly, rubbing his good hand over his face. He was thirteen, an Alley kid who’d survived more than most people could imagine. He wasn’t supposed to feel this… shaken.

But the ache in his chest wouldn’t go away.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, Jason finally gave up.

Sliding out of bed, he grabbed the first book he could reach from his makeshift stack on the floor: The Count of Monte Cristo. It wasn’t his first time reading it, but revenge and triumph always felt good to revisit. He padded quietly down the hall, clutching the book against his chest like a shield. He didn’t know exactly where he was going until he found himself outside Bruce’s room.

Jason hesitated. Bruce wasn’t exactly the "comforting dad" type, and waking him up over a rough night seemed… stupid. Still, his hand hovered over the doorknob, his chest tightening. He could turn back, but the uneasiness gnawed at him like it always did after a close call.

Before he could second-guess himself further, he cracked the door open.

Bruce was awake, sitting up in bed with his laptop balanced across his legs. The glow of a reading lamp illuminated the room, casting soft shadows over the furniture. Bruce’s gaze lifted as soon as Jason entered, his sharp eyes taking in the boy’s pale face and uncertain stance.

Jason cleared his throat. “Uh… sorry,” he muttered, not meeting Bruce’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to bug you. I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

Bruce closed his laptop, setting it aside, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, without a word, he shifted over and patted the space beside him on the bed.

Jason blinked. “Seriously?” he asked, skeptical.

Bruce nodded. “Seriously. Come here.”

Jason hesitated. This wasn’t what he’d expected—maybe a lecture about discipline or a reminder to tough it out. Instead, Bruce’s tone was calm, steady, inviting. With a small shrug, Jason crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, clutching The Count of Monte Cristo tightly. 

“Lean back,” Bruce said, grabbing an extra pillow and propping it behind Jason. “It’ll help your shoulder.”

Jason muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. He eased back against the pillows, letting out a soft sigh as some of the tension in his body began to fade.

For a while, neither of them said anything. Jason stared down at the blanket draped over his legs, his good hand fidgeting with the edge.

Bruce broke the silence. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jason shook his head quickly. “Not really.” He hesitated, then added, “It wasn’t a big deal, you know. Just a couple of thugs. I’m fine.”

Bruce gave him a look. “Jason.”

The boy sighed, slumping slightly against the pillows. “Okay, fine. Maybe it wasn’t just thugs. It got… bad for a second, but I handled it. Mostly.”

“You did more than handle it,” Bruce said. “You stayed calm, fought back, and apprehended the criminals. That’s what matters.”

Jason glanced at him, his expression skeptical. “Yeah, but if you hadn’t shown up when you did…” He trailed off, his hand tightening around the blanket.

“You’re learning,” Bruce said simply. “Every fight teaches you something. And you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

Jason didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure what to say. Part of him wanted to believe Bruce, but the other part—the part that had grown up scraping by on Gotham’s streets—still whispered that he wasn’t enough.

“What’s that?” Bruce asked, nodding toward the book. His words broke Jason out of his thoughts.

Jason hesitated, then glanced down. “Just… some book I found,” he mumbled. “I haven’t read it in a while.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Monte Cristo’s a good choice,” he said, gaze focused on Jason. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’re clearly not sleeping,” Bruce said simply, holding out a hand for the book. “Sometimes it helps.”

Jason frowned, his pride flaring. “I don’t need—” He stopped himself, staring at Bruce’s calm, patient expression. His mother used to read to him. Nobody had for years. “Fine. Sure.”

He handed over the book with a huff, folding his arms awkwardly to avoid jostling his injured shoulder. Bruce settled back against the headboard, opening the book to where Jason had left off. His deep, even voice filled the room as he began to read, the words flowing smoothly, painting vivid pictures in Jason’s mind.

At first, Jason tried to stay distant, his good hand drumming lightly against his knee as he listened. But it didn’t take long for him to get drawn in, the story pulling him away from the lingering fears and doubts.

Bruce’s hand found its way to Jason’s hair, his fingers brushing gently through the messy curls. Jason didn’t protest, though he shifted slightly to rest his head against Bruce’s side. The rhythmic motion, combined with Bruce’s steady voice, was unexpectedly soothing.

Before long, Jason’s eyelids began to grow heavy. He fought it at first, trying to stay awake for just one more chapter, but exhaustion won out. His breathing evened out, and his small frame relaxed completely against Bruce.

By the time Bruce glanced down, Jason’s breathing had evened out, his head resting against Bruce’s side. Bruce carefully set the book aside and ran a hand lightly through Jason’s curls, his expression softening.

For a moment, Bruce simply watched him, his expression softening. Jason was different from Dick—more rough around the edges, more stubborn—but he was just as full of life, just as deserving of love.

Bruce brushed a stray curl from Jason’s forehead, his voice quiet as he murmured, “You did well tonight, Jason. You’re alright.”

Jason stirred slightly, nuzzling closer into Bruce’s side before settling again.

As dawn began to creep through the curtains, Bruce leaned back and closed his eyes, his hand still resting protectively on his son’s head. 

For now, everything was okay.

3. Tim | Age 17

Tim had been running himself ragged, as usual. Balancing school, patrols, and hours of work in the Batcave was difficult for anyone, but for Tim, the pressure seemed self-inflicted. He thrived on being useful, on proving he could handle the workload. Bruce suspected that Tim believed slowing down—even for a moment—meant he wasn’t pulling his weight.

But Tim’s body had other ideas.

Since losing his spleen, Tim’s immune system hadn’t been the same. He caught colds easily, and what started as a slight cough earlier in the week had worsened into a persistent fever. Alfred had noticed it first, pointing out the faint flush on Tim’s cheeks and the glassy sheen in his eyes.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred had said firmly, “you need rest. No patrols tonight.”

Tim had argued, of course. He always did. But Alfred was immovable, banishing him from the Batcave and issuing strict instructions for him to stay in bed.

Bruce had been inclined to agree, though he knew better than to force the issue right away. Tim wasn’t someone you could simply order to rest; you had to meet him halfway, and give him a reason to trust you.

So, Bruce had let him retreat to his room, hoping he’d follow Alfred’s advice. But when Bruce came upstairs an hour later, he found Tim sprawled across his bed instead.

At first, Bruce didn’t notice him—Tim was so still, curled up in a loose sprawl, his dark hair blending into the shadows of the room. But then he stepped closer and saw how pale the boy looked, the sweat beading on his forehead, his lips dry and cracked.

“Tim,” Bruce said sharply, his voice cutting through the stillness.

Tim stirred, a faint groan escaping his lips. His head turned slightly, but his eyes didn’t open. He mumbled something incoherent, his voice weak and hoarse.

Bruce’s frown deepened. He crouched by the bed, placing a hand on Tim’s forehead. His skin was burning up.

“Damn it,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

Tim had been pushing himself too hard for days now. Bruce had seen it—the late nights hunched over the computer, the hours of research and strategy planning, the way Tim refused to let himself rest even when he was clearly exhausted.

Bruce pulled the blankets up over Tim’s shivering frame and headed to the bathroom to grab a cool washcloth. When he returned, Tim’s eyes had cracked open, though they were unfocused and heavy-lidded.

“Bruce?” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

“I’m here,” Bruce said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He gently pressed the damp cloth to Tim’s forehead, wiping away some of the sweat.

Tim blinked sluggishly, his gaze darting around the room as if trying to get his bearings. “Guess I got tired,” he muttered, his words slurring slightly.

“You think?” Bruce replied, his tone dry but not unkind.

Tim managed a faint, lopsided smile before his eyes drifted shut again.

Bruce stayed where he was, watching the boy carefully. He could see the strain in Tim’s face, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his body seemed too small beneath the blankets. It was a stark reminder that, for all his brilliance and determination, Tim was still just a kid.

The thought made Bruce’s chest tighten.

Tim stirred again, his brow furrowing as if caught in a restless dream. He muttered something under his breath, the words too soft to make out. Bruce reached out instinctively, placing a steadying hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

Tim didn’t respond, but his breathing began to even out, the tension in his body easing slightly.

Bruce stayed by his side, his hand never leaving Tim’s shoulder. Time passed slowly, the only sounds in the room were the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional rustle of blankets as Tim shifted.

When Tim finally woke again, his fever had broken. His eyes were clearer now, though still heavy with exhaustion.

“Bruce?” he murmured, his voice still hoarse but stronger than before.

“I’m here,” Bruce said, holding out a glass of water.

Tim propped himself up weakly, his movements slow and unsteady. He took the glass with a shaky hand, sipping carefully.

“Thanks,” he said after a moment, his voice soft.

Bruce nodded, his expression unreadable. He waited until Tim had finished drinking before taking the glass and setting it aside.

“You need to stop pushing yourself so hard,” Bruce said finally, his tone firm but not harsh. “You can’t keep running on empty, Tim. Your body won’t let you.”

Tim looked down, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I just wanted to help,” he said quietly.

“You do help,” Bruce said, leaning forward slightly. “But you’re no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He glanced up at Bruce, his expression hesitant. “You’re not mad?”

Bruce’s gaze softened. “No, Tim. I’m not mad.”

Tim let out a small breath, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Okay. I’ll try to take it easy. Just… don’t tell Alfred I was in here, okay? He’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Bruce allowed himself a faint smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Tim chuckled weakly, his eyes already starting to drift shut again.

Bruce watched him for a moment before reaching for the damp cloth and gently pressing it to Tim’s forehead once more. His other hand found its way to Tim’s hair, his fingers brushing lightly through the dark strands.

Tim murmured something incoherent, leaning into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

Bruce stayed there, his hand moving gently through Tim’s hair until the boy’s breathing evened out and he slipped back into sleep.

For a long time, Bruce simply sat there, keeping watch. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Alfred appeared in the doorway, his sharp gaze immediately assessing the situation.

“Master Timothy?” Alfred asked quietly.

“He’ll be fine,” Bruce replied, his voice equally soft. “The fever’s breaking.”

Alfred stepped into the room, his expression both relieved and fond as he looked down at Tim’s sleeping form.

“He’s lucky to have you,” Alfred said after a moment.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. He glanced down at Tim, his hand still resting lightly on the boy’s head.

“I’m lucky to have him,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alfred nodded, his eyes warm with understanding. “Indeed.”

The older man left quietly, leaving Bruce alone with his son once more.

As the first hints of dawn began to creep through the curtains, Bruce leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting protectively on Tim’s head. For now, everything was okay.

4. Damian | Age 11

The storm raged outside, rain battering the windows of Wayne Manor as thunder cracked through the night. Bruce, seated on the edge of his bed, had been reading over some Wayne Enterprises paperwork in the dim glow of a bedside lamp when his door flew open with a sharp bang .

Standing in the doorway was Damian, his small frame rigid with indignation. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, though one hand clutched a stuffed animal that Bruce was fairly certain Dick had gotten for him. It was some sort of worn lion, its mane a little threadbare, as though it had been gripped far too many times in moments of tension.

“Damian?” Bruce asked, lowering his papers, his brow furrowing in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Damian stormed into the room, his steps firm but his movements betraying a restless energy. “I cannot sleep,” he announced, his tone sharp and precise as ever.

Bruce set the paperwork down on the nightstand and turned his full attention to his son. Damian’s jaw was clenched, his gaze defiant, but the faint shadows under his eyes and the stiffness in his posture told a different story.

“The storm?” Bruce guessed, keeping his tone even.

Damian’s glare sharpened as he held his ground. “The storm is too loud ,” he said tersely.

Bruce blinked. “Are you afraid of the storm?”

“I’m not!” Damian snapped, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I just… cannot focus my mind. The incessant thunder and the howling wind are—” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise, gripping the stuffed lion tighter.

Bruce didn’t press him. He simply sighed and leaned back against the headboard, lifting the blanket in silent invitation.

Damian hesitated, his eyes darting toward the bed before narrowing suspiciously. “I do not require coddling,” he muttered, but there was an edge of vulnerability in his voice.

“This isn’t coddling,” Bruce replied simply. “Just sleep.”

For a moment, Damian stood rooted to the spot, clearly waging some internal war with himself. Then, with a sharp exhale, he marched over to the bed and climbed in, still clutching the stuffed lion.

At first, Damian positioned himself as far from Bruce as possible, lying stiffly on his side with his back to his father. The storm continued to rage outside, each crack of thunder making the boy’s shoulders tense slightly.

Bruce glanced down at him, his expression softening. “Titus is downstairs,” he offered after a moment. “Do you want me to bring him up here?”

Damian didn’t respond immediately, but the tiniest flicker of interest crossed his face. “If he is not frightened by the storm,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral.

“I don’t think Titus is afraid of anything,” Bruce said with a faint smile. He reached for his phone and sent a quick message to Alfred asking him to bring Titus up.

They waited in silence, the only sound of the relentless rain against the windows and the occasional growl of thunder. Damian shifted slightly, his back still to Bruce, but when the thunder cracked again, he inched closer, almost imperceptibly.

By the time Alfred arrived, Titus trotting obediently at his side, Damian had moved close enough to Bruce that their shoulders were almost touching. The stuffed lion was now tucked securely under his chin, and his breathing had slowed, though it still hitched slightly with each boom of thunder.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said quietly as he stepped into the room, “Titus, as requested.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said.

Titus padded over to the bed immediately, his large, gentle eyes fixed on Damian. The boy sat up, his expression carefully composed as he reached out to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

“Good boy,” Damian murmured under his breath, his fingers sinking into Titus’s thick fur. The dog responded by nosing at his shoulder, a comforting presence that seemed to ease some of the tension in Damian’s posture.

Alfred the Cat, apparently not wanting to be left out, had followed Titus into the room. The sleek feline leapt gracefully onto the bed and settled at Damian’s feet, curling into a neat ball as though staking his claim.

Bruce watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. “Looks like you’ve got a full house,” he said.

Damian gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t respond. Instead, he lay back down, this time pulling Titus closer so that the dog’s warm body was pressed against his side. Alfred the Cat purred softly, his presence anchoring the foot of the bed.

Bruce reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a comfortable darkness lit only by the occasional flash of lightning. He lay back against the pillows, adjusting the blanket to cover Damian, Titus, and himself.

The storm outside continued to roar, but within the room, a sense of calm had settled. Damian’s breathing grew steadier, though Bruce could still feel the faint tremors that ran through the boy’s body whenever the thunder boomed.

Without thinking, Bruce rested a hand lightly on Damian’s shoulder. “It’s just a storm,” he said quietly. “It’ll pass.”

“I know that,” Damian muttered, though his voice had lost some of its earlier sharpness.

Bruce didn’t reply. Instead, his hand moved to Damian’s hair, his fingers threading gently through the dark curls. It was a soothing motion, one that Bruce barely realized he was doing until Damian let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh.

Minutes passed. The storm began to move further into the distance, the thunder growing quieter. Damian’s body, which had been tense and coiled like a spring, finally began to relax. He shifted closer to Bruce, resting his head tentatively against his father’s side.

Bruce didn’t comment on it. He simply continued to run his fingers through Damian’s hair, his other hand resting on Titus’s back as the dog let out a contented huff.

By the time the storm had all but faded, Damian’s breathing had evened out completely. The stuffed lion was clutched loosely in his hands, his face peaceful in sleep.

Bruce glanced down at him, his expression unreadable but soft. For all Damian’s bravado and sharp words, moments like this reminded Bruce just how young he really was—how much he still needed reassurance, even if he would never admit it.

Alfred the Cat stretched lazily at the foot of the bed, his tail curling around himself as he purred contentedly. Titus shifted slightly, resting his massive head on Damian’s legs but otherwise staying perfectly still.

Bruce stayed awake for a while longer, his hand still brushing through Damian’s hair. When Alfred returned to check on them, he paused in the doorway, his sharp eyes taking in the scene with a faint smile.

“Shall I bring anything else, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked quietly.

“No,” Bruce replied just as softly. “We’re fine.”

Alfred nodded once before retreating, leaving Bruce alone with his son, the dog, and the cat.

As the first light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, Bruce allowed his own eyes to drift shut. Damian’s quiet breaths and the steady presence of the animals were enough to lull him into a rare, peaceful sleep.

Neither of them mentioned the stuffed lion, or the storm, the next morning. But Bruce noticed that Damian lingered a little longer at breakfast, his sharp edges softened, and that was enough.

5. Steph | Age 18

The manor was quiet, almost unnervingly so. 

After a particularly grueling patrol that left Steph nursing a sprained ankle and more bruises than she could count, she’d expected to flop onto her bed and fall into a dreamless sleep.

But as she lay there, leg elevated with ice packs, she couldn’t stop the restlessness from creeping in. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or maybe it was the ache in her ankle that throbbed no matter how she adjusted the pillows beneath it. Either way, sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

It didn’t help that the Wayne Manor guest rooms felt way too formal for her liking—ornate furniture, heavy drapes, and ceilings so high they made her feel like she was being swallowed up. It didn’t feel homey. 

Not like her tiny bedroom back at her mom’s place, where posters of rock bands and old photos covered every inch of the walls. Here, everything felt pristine, untouchable, and, frankly, cold.

Steph threw off the covers and hobbled to the window, leaning on her crutches. The moonlight spilled over the Wayne estate, illuminating the sprawling gardens and the Batcave’s secret entrance. It all looked peaceful enough, but the restlessness wouldn’t leave her alone.

She grumbled to herself as she hobbled back to the bed, collapsing into the pillows. She adjusted the ice pack on her ankle, wincing as it brushed against a particularly tender spot. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath. “I save Gotham from complete lunatics, but a twisted ankle takes me out? Unfair.”

After another half hour of tossing and turning, she gave up entirely. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well make herself useful. Sliding into a hoodie and pulling it halfway over her head—to keep it low-key, obviously—Steph grabbed her crutches and headed down the hall, her steps quiet against the carpet. She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going, but her subconscious seemed to have a plan.

When she reached Bruce’s bedroom door, she stopped, staring at it like it had personally insulted her.

“Nope,” she whispered. “Not happening. I’m not that desperate.”

Her ankle throbbed again.

“Okay, maybe I am.”

She knocked, a quiet, barely-there sound, before realizing that Bruce probably wouldn’t hear it. With a huff, she pushed the door open, cringing when the hinges gave the faintest creak.

Bruce was awake instantly, because of course he was. His sharp gaze landed on her from the shadows. “Stephanie?” His voice was low, steady—annoyingly calm for someone who’d just been woken up.

“Uh…hey.” She waved awkwardly, shifting her weight on her crutches. “So, don’t laugh, but Alfred said I shouldn’t risk the stairs on crutches, and I can’t sleep, and my ankle hates me, so...here I am.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t sleep, so you came here?”

Steph’s face heated. “Well, I wasn’t going to go hang out in the Batcave or something. Unless you’re volunteering to keep me company.”

He didn’t answer right away, and for a second, Steph wondered if she’d gone too far. But then Bruce shifted, pulling back the covers and nodding toward the other side of the bed.

“Sit,” he said simply.

Steph blinked. “Really? I figured you’d, like, tell me to suck it up and go meditate or something.”

“You’ve had a long night,” Bruce replied. “And I’ve learned it’s easier to let you win these arguments than to listen to your rebuttals.”

Steph grinned, making her way over and lowering herself onto the bed with as much grace as she could manage. She propped her injured foot on a pillow, hissing at the pressure. Bruce handed her a spare blanket without a word, and she tucked it around herself, suddenly hyper-aware of how stiff and awkward this felt.

They sat in silence for a while. Bruce leaned back against the headboard, his arms crossed, while Steph tried to find a position that didn’t make her ankle scream in protest.

“Do you need anything for the pain?” he asked eventually.

“Nah, Alfred already gave me the good stuff. I just...” She trailed off, unsure how to explain the restlessness still buzzing under her skin. “I hate feeling useless, you know?”

“You’re not useless,” Bruce said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“I know that now, but in the moment…” She gestured vaguely at her leg. “I’m just lying there, thinking about all the things I could be doing, and instead I’m stuck icing this stupid ankle and trying not to trip over myself.”

Bruce studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “It’s not easy to stop,” he said finally. “To let yourself rest. But it’s necessary. If you push too hard, you’ll only make things worse.”

Steph smirked. “Wow, a lecture and a life lesson. You really are full of surprises tonight, Bats.”

He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just enough to make Steph think he might have been amused.

“Do you feel like this, too?” she asked, her tone turning serious. “Like, every time you get hurt, you should just get back out there and keep going? No breaks, no excuses?”

Bruce nodded slowly. “I do. But I’ve also learned the cost of ignoring your limits. It’s not worth it.”

Steph mulled over his words, her expression softening. “Huh. I guess you’re not just a growly, broody vigilante after all.”

Eventually, the quiet settled over them again, this time more comfortable than before. Steph shifted, leaning back against the pillows and closing her eyes. The ache in her ankle was still there, but it felt duller now, less urgent.

“Hey, Bruce?” she mumbled, half-asleep.

“Yes?”

“You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

She didn’t see his reaction, but she liked to think there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

When Steph woke up the next morning, the sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains. She blinked groggily, realizing with some embarrassment that she’d sprawled out across most of the bed during the night. Bruce was already up, of course, because he was Bruce.

“You’re awake,” he said, glancing up from the chair where he was scanning something on a tablet.

“Barely,” Steph muttered, rubbing her eyes. “Did you sleep at all, or are you secretly a robot?”

He ignored the question, standing and stretching. “Breakfast is ready in the kitchen. Alfred wanted me to remind you to eat before you take any more painkillers.”

Steph snorted. “Classic Alfred.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her ankle protested the movement. “Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. As she reached for her crutches, he finally said, “You’re always welcome here, Stephanie.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Thanks,” she said finally, her tone softer than usual. “I’ll try not to annoy you too much with that privilege.”

He didn’t smile, but she thought she caught the faintest glimmer of something close to approval in his expression.

“Let’s hope,” he said, his voice dry but not unkind.

As Steph hobbled out of the room, she couldn’t help but smile. For all his gruffness, Bruce had a way of showing he cared—whether he wanted to admit it or not.

When she reached the kitchen, Alfred raised an eyebrow at her dishevelled appearance but said nothing, simply sliding a plate of pancakes in front of her. Steph glanced around at the empty chairs, wondering if the others ever had moments like hers—needing a little bit of reassurance, a reminder that they belonged.

For once, though, she didn’t feel out of place.

6. Cass | Age 19 

The manor was quiet, the kind of silence that settled after midnight, when even the shadows seemed to rest. Bruce had gone to bed late, his body weighed down by the events of the evening. Patrol had been intense—Gotham’s criminals never slept, and some nights felt endless. But now, in the solitude of his room, he allowed himself a rare moment of rest.

That rest didn’t last long.

A presence stirred him awake, a shift in the air that his years of training had honed him to detect. His eyes blinked open, and his instincts kicked in immediately, scanning the dim room for threats.

He saw her before he heard her.

Cass stood at the side of his bed, her figure barely illuminated by the faint moonlight streaming through the window. She didn’t say a word, but her posture spoke volumes. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her hands trembling in a way that was almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know her as well as Bruce did.

“Cass?” he said softly, his voice laced with concern.

She didn’t respond, her wide, dark eyes locking onto his. Her face was pale, and her shoulders were hunched slightly, as though she were carrying the weight of something she couldn’t bear to put into words.

It was then that he noticed the fresh scar running across her shoulder, the lopsided cut of her shirt revealing the angry red line. Bruce’s heart sank. He’d missed it earlier—on patrol, she’d hidden it too well, her movements as fluid and precise as ever. But now, in the stillness of his room, she wasn’t hiding anymore.

He sat up, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to startle her. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” he asked gently.

Cass shook her head, but her breathing hitched slightly, the only betrayal of the storm brewing inside her.

Bruce didn’t press further. Instead, he opened his arms, the gesture simple and unspoken. An invitation.

For a moment, she didn’t move. She just stood there, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides as though she were waging a silent battle with herself. Then, with a hesitant step, she moved toward him.

Cass climbed into the bed, her movements stiff and awkward at first. She curled up beside him, her small frame tucking against his side like a wounded bird seeking shelter. Bruce pulled the blanket over her, his arms encircling her carefully, mindful of the wound on her shoulder.

Her body trembled against him, the faint shakes running through her like aftershocks from an unseen quake. Bruce said nothing, offering only the steady rhythm of his presence. He rested a hand lightly on her back, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles in a gesture meant to ground her.

For hours, neither of them spoke.

Cass didn’t cry—she rarely did—but her breathing remained uneven, shallow and ragged, as though she were trying to hold something back. Bruce could feel the tension in her muscles, the way her hands clung tightly to the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re safe,” he said quietly, the words a gentle reassurance.

She didn’t respond, but her grip on his shirt loosened slightly, a small but telling sign.

Bruce’s mind wandered as they lay there in the quiet. He thought about the life Cass had lived before coming to them—the pain and isolation she’d endured, the scars both visible and invisible that she carried with her every day. He thought about how fiercely she fought, not just in battle but in her everyday existence, clawing her way toward a life where she could finally feel safe.

And yet, nights like this reminded him how fragile that sense of safety could be.

As the hours passed, Cass’s trembling began to subside. Her breathing grew steadier, the tension in her body easing bit by bit. Bruce continued to hold her, his hand never stopping its soothing motion along her back.

At one point, Alfred the Cat slipped into the room, his sleek figure moving silently through the shadows. He leapt onto the bed with the grace of a predator, his golden eyes flicking toward Cass as though sensing her distress.

The cat curled up near her feet, his presence unobtrusive but comforting in its own way. Bruce noticed the faintest hint of a smile tug at Cass’s lips—a fleeting expression that disappeared as quickly as it came, but it was there.

Bruce allowed himself a small breath of relief.

When Cass finally drifted off, her body completely relaxed against him, Bruce stayed awake a while longer. He watched the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the way her fingers rested lightly against his side. She looked so young like this, so vulnerable, and it struck him how much strength it had taken for her to come to him in the first place.

Cass didn’t need words to communicate—she never had. Her actions spoke louder than anything she could have said, and tonight, her presence alone had said everything Bruce needed to know.

She trusted him.

The next morning, Bruce woke to an empty bed. The space beside him was still warm, the blanket slightly rumpled where Cass had been.

He sat up slowly, his eyes scanning the room out of habit. On the nightstand, he noticed a small piece of paper folded neatly in half.

Reaching for it, Bruce unfolded the note. The handwriting was small and uneven, as though she’d taken great care with each letter:

Thank you.

Two simple words. But from Cass, it was a declaration.

Bruce’s chest tightened, and he placed the note carefully back on the nightstand. He knew better than to bring it up with her—Cass wasn’t the type to dwell on moments like these. She would have already moved on, burying the vulnerability she’d shown beneath her usual reserved exterior.

Still, Bruce couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet pride. He didn’t need her to say more. The note was enough.

Later that day, he found her in the training room. She was going through her usual drills, her movements fluid and precise as she struck at invisible opponents. Her scar was still visible, though it had been cleaned and bandaged properly now.

“Cass,” Bruce called from the doorway.

She paused, lowering her fists as she turned to face him. Her expression was calm, unreadable, but Bruce could see the faintest flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude.

“You okay?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

She nodded once, a small but firm gesture.

Bruce hesitated for a moment before stepping into the room. “You know you don’t have to do everything alone,” he said carefully.

Cass’s gaze flicked to the floor, then back to him. She didn’t say anything, but her posture shifted slightly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“Good,” Bruce said, his voice steady.

He stayed in the room for a while longer, watching as she returned to her drills. Her movements were as sharp and controlled as ever, but there was a new sense of ease to them, as though the weight she’d carried the night before had lifted just a little.

Cass didn’t need words to show her gratitude. She showed it in the way she trusted him, in the way she allowed herself to be vulnerable, even for just one night. And for Bruce, that was all he needed.

7. Duke | Age 15

Duke’s nightmares didn’t come often anymore, but when they did, they felt like a living thing, clawing its way into his mind and refusing to let go. He hadn’t had one in months—not since he first started living in the manor—but tonight, it hit him like a freight train.

It always started the same way. The voices. His mom and dad laughing together, teasing him about school, about how he always burned pancakes when it was his turn to make breakfast. Then, the laughter would twist into something guttural, a sound that didn’t belong to them. The laughter turned to screams, and the room grew dark, the kind of darkness that swallowed everything whole.

That’s when he woke up.

Duke bolted upright, gasping for air, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might burst. His room was dark, too dark, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still in the nightmare. His breaths came quick and shallow, and the walls seemed to press in around him.

He stumbled out of bed before he fully realized where he was going. His feet carried him down the hall, the soft carpet muffling his steps as he made his way toward the one place in the house that always felt solid, unshakable.

Bruce’s room.

The door creaked slightly as Duke pushed it open, his hands trembling at his sides. He hesitated for a moment, standing in the doorway, before stepping inside. He didn’t bother turning on the light; the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains was enough.

“Bruce?” Duke’s voice came out small, cracking at the edges.

The figure in the bed shifted, and Duke saw Bruce sit up, his silhouette outlined against the faint light.

“Duke?” Bruce’s voice was calm, steady, but laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Duke didn’t know how to answer. He felt the words clawing at his throat, but they wouldn’t come out. Instead, he moved closer, sinking onto the edge of the bed. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists, trying to stop the tremors.

“Bad dream?” Bruce asked gently.

Duke nodded, swallowing hard. His mouth was dry, and his chest still felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the room.

Bruce reached out, his hand resting lightly on Duke’s shoulder. “Take a deep breath,” he said.

Duke tried. The first attempt was shallow and shaky, but Bruce’s hand didn’t move. “Again,” Bruce said, his tone patient.

The second breath came easier, deeper, and Duke felt his heart rate begin to slow.

“You’re okay,” Bruce said, his voice low and even. “You’re safe.”

Safe. The word felt foreign, distant. Duke couldn’t remember the last time he truly felt safe—not since the night his parents had been taken from him. But sitting here, in the quiet of Bruce’s room, he wanted to believe it.

Bruce shifted, pulling the covers back in a silent invitation. Duke hesitated. He wasn’t a kid, and he wasn’t sure if this was crossing some kind of line. But Bruce didn’t rush him, didn’t push. He just waited, his expression calm, his hand still resting lightly on Duke’s shoulder.

Finally, Duke moved, sliding under the blanket. He felt awkward at first, stiff and unsure of what to do with his arms, but the warmth of the bed and the steady presence of Bruce beside him slowly began to chip away at the tension in his body.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, and Duke found himself focusing on that rhythm—the rise and fall, steady and sure.

“It was about my parents,” Duke whispered finally, his voice barely audible.

He felt Bruce shift slightly, turning his head to look at him.

“I dreamt about how they used to be—before everything went wrong. They were happy, you know? Always laughing, always together.” His voice caught, and he took another shaky breath. “But then… it changed. It always changes. Their faces—” He stopped, unable to continue.

Bruce didn’t say anything right away, and Duke was grateful for that. He didn’t want empty platitudes or reassurances that everything would be okay. He just needed someone to listen.

“You’re safe here,” Bruce said eventually, his voice quiet but firm.

Duke nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to feel like this place could be a home, like he wasn’t just a guest passing through.

“Do you ever have nightmares?” Duke asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

Bruce was quiet for a moment before answering. “Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“I keep going,” Bruce said simply. “And I remind myself that the past can’t hurt me anymore. It shaped me, but it doesn’t control me.”

Duke mulled over those words, turning them over in his mind. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to believe that yet, but hearing Bruce say it made it feel a little less impossible.

Titus padded into the room then, his nails clicking softly against the floor. The big dog moved toward the bed, his tail wagging slightly as he nudged Duke’s arm with his nose.

“Hey, Titus,” Duke said, his voice softening as he reached out to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

Titus climbed onto the bed without hesitation, curling up near Duke’s feet. The weight of the dog against his legs was oddly comforting, grounding him in a way he didn’t expect.

Bruce reached over, pulling the blanket up a little higher. “You don’t have to deal with this alone, Duke,” he said. “We’re here for you.”

Duke nodded again, his eyes starting to grow heavy. The warmth of the bed, the steady rhythm of Bruce’s breathing, and the comforting presence of Titus were enough to lull him toward sleep.

For the first time in a long time, the darkness didn’t feel so overwhelming.

The next morning, Duke woke to the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains. Titus was still curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring quietly. Bruce was already gone, the bed neatly made on his side, but a note sat on the nightstand.

Picking it up, Duke unfolded the paper to find Bruce’s neat, precise handwriting.

You’re stronger than you think. Don’t forget that.

A small smile tugged at Duke’s lips as he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe, just maybe, he could start to believe it.

8. All of Them

Bruce couldn’t count on one hand the number of times he’d been ordered to bed rest in his life. Each time, it had been under Alfred’s ironclad authority, and each time, it had felt like torture. This time was no different. His back was a mess, stiff and aching from a rough encounter on patrol that left him grinding his teeth through every motion.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred had said, his tone brooking no argument, “if you insist on behaving like a reckless fool, I shall treat you as one. And reckless fools do not get to leave their rooms.”

Bruce had managed a muttered protest before Alfred turned on his heel and left, the door clicking shut with a finality that told him resistance was futile. So, here he was, sprawled out on his bed, frustration simmering beneath his skin as the dull throb in his lower back kept him firmly in place. He hated resting. He hated being confined, hated the vulnerability that crept in when he couldn’t be out there, doing something, protecting the city. And, as always, he hated the reminder of what had happened with Bane.

It wasn’t the same injury, he told himself. This wasn’t the same thing. But his mind whispered otherwise, dredging up the memory of the fight, the sound of his back breaking, and the agony that had followed. Even now, years later, the phantom pain lingered, a ghost haunting his every movement. He tried to push those thoughts aside and had just started to drift into a fitful sleep when the bed shifted slightly.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. Then came the unmistakable sound of light snoring to his right.

Bruce cracked one eye open and saw Dick, sprawled out on his side, one arm dangling off the bed as if he’d been there for hours. Bruce sighed, closing his eyes again. Of course.

He tried to let it go, to let the presence of his eldest be a minor inconvenience rather than an interruption. But not long after, the bed shifted again.

This time, it was Damian, climbing in without so much as a word. Bruce opened his eyes fully to see his youngest holding a book in one hand and clutching what looked suspiciously like his old stuffed bat plushie in the other. Damian didn’t meet Bruce’s gaze, simply settling himself on Bruce’s chest like he belonged there, the book balanced precariously on his knees.

Bruce groaned softly. “Damian…”

“Grayson is here,” Damian said shortly, flipping a page. “And Alfred told me to ensure you remained in bed. I’m supervising.”

Supervising? Before Bruce could respond, the door creaked open yet again, and a familiar voice piped up.

“You’d think he’d get a bigger bed by now,” Tim muttered as he climbed in, curling up at the foot of the bed like a cat.

“Tim,” Bruce began, his tone edged with warning.

“What?” Tim stretched out, his feet barely brushing Damian’s legs. “I had a nightmare. This seemed easier than pacing the hall.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to summon the willpower to protest. But his back ached, and frankly, he didn’t have the energy.

The door opened again, and Bruce didn’t even bother looking this time.

“Jason, if you’re about to—”

“I’m not climbing in your stupid bed, old man,” Jason said, his voice carrying a smirk. “But this chair? All mine.”

Sure enough, Jason flopped into the armchair in the corner, kicking his legs up onto the ottoman with a smug grin.

Bruce muttered something under his breath about boundaries, but before he could finish the thought, Stephanie strolled in, laptop in hand.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the growing pile of bodies on Bruce’s bed.

“Family bonding,” Dick mumbled sleepily, barely lifting his head.

Stephanie shrugged and plopped down against the headboard, her laptop balanced on her knees as she opened it.

Bruce stared at her, then at the others, and then at the door, wondering if it was too late to make an escape.

“You’re grounded, Master Bruce,” came Alfred’s voice from somewhere down the hall, as if he’d read Bruce’s mind.

Bruce sighed deeply, resigned to his fate. Duke was next, quietly slipping into the room and perching precariously on the edge of the bed.

“I’m just here for moral support,” Duke said when Bruce shot him a look.

By the time Cassandra entered, silent as a shadow, Bruce had given up entirely. She didn’t say a word, simply curled into a corner of the bed with the ease of someone who had done this before. Titus padded in a moment later, his massive frame taking up what little floor space remained as he settled near Jason’s chair. Alfred the Cat followed, leaping gracefully onto the bed and making a beeline for Damian’s lap.

Bruce stared at the chaos that had unfolded in his room, the bed groaning under the collective weight of his so-called family.

“Seriously?” he muttered, his voice dripping with exasperation.

“You’re not supposed to stress yourself out,” Tim said helpfully, not bothering to lift his head.

Bruce glared at him, but there was no real heat behind it.

Dick yawned, shifting slightly to make more room. “C’mon, Bruce. This is nice. When’s the last time we all just... hung out?”

“In my bed?” Bruce asked dryly.

“Family bonding,” Dick repeated, this time with more conviction.

Bruce opened his mouth to argue but stopped when Damian shifted closer, resting his head against Bruce’s chest. The book had fallen to his side, forgotten.

“Don’t make it weird, Father,” Damian muttered, his eyes already drifting shut.

Bruce sighed again, softer this time. He reached for the blanket and pulled it up, tucking it around the tangle of limbs and bodies. The bed was crowded and uncomfortable, but as he looked around at the faces of his children—his family—he felt something loosen in his chest.

The ache in his back was still there, persistent as ever, but for the first time in days, it didn’t seem so bad.

“Fine,” he muttered, settling back against the pillows. “But if anyone snores, you’re all out.”

A soft chorus of snores answered him almost immediately.

Bruce shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Maybe, just maybe, he’d let them stay.

And maybe Alfred had been right—rest wasn’t so bad after all.