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Bruce loves his kids. They do, however, annoy him at times, and they excel at turning his hair gray. Light-hearted jokes often help diffuse the tension; one of Bruce’s favorite bits was to make “unadoption” threats. After repeating the bit with each of his kids, he discovered that not all of them reacted the same:
Bruce sighed as he gazed up at the sight above him. It was giving him deja vu.
“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before…” Dick’s eyes widened as he glanced down from his spot on the chandelier. He at least had the decency to look a tad sheepish.
“I got bored.” Dick defended.
“Well, can you get bored somewhere safer? Preferably with both feet on the ground.”
“I am safe! I’ve done tons of tricks without a net before and from much higher than this!” Dick leaned back, hanging upside down with his legs supporting his weight. His pout looked a little funny when it was upside down. Bruce fought to keep a straight face.
“I heard Alfred was baking cookies today, but if you’d rather stay up there…”
“…What kind?”
“Chocolate chip.”
Dick flipped down from the chandelier. He gave a dramatic bow before straightening with a large, dazzling grin. He was a performer at heart and held that same smile even for his audience of one.
“I still have your adoption certificate. I wonder if the orphanage accepts returns?” Bruce mused fondly. He tilted his head as if seriously contemplating the idea. Dick rolled his eyes.
“Thirty-day return policy,” Dick joked, “You missed the deadline.”
“Aw, man. Well, at least Alfred’s cookies will cheer me up.” He slung an arm over Dick’s shoulders as they walked to the kitchen.
Jason lightly punched him in the arm before returning to a fighting stance. Bruce released an amused huff, eyes still trained on the computer screen. Since Jason’s recent adoption, he had really settled into life in the manor. More and more of Jason’s personality shined through as he became comfortable with Bruce.
“Later, Jay,” Bruce gently chided. Jason stepped up on the legs of his office chair and rested his head atop Bruce’s. He absentmindedly patted the top of Jason’s head. Maybe Jason would finally let him finish his work.
He was wrong.
Jason snaked his arms around Bruce’s throat in a firm but not painful chokehold. Bruce gently pried his arm away.
“I knew I should have left you on that street corner where I found you,” Bruce sighed with mock regret, reaching up to ruffle his hair. Jason stiffened.
“Jay?”
Jason averted his eyes with a quiet sniffle. Bruce reached for him, hand hovering hesitantly above Jason’s shoulder.
“I promised Alfred I’d help with dinner,” Jason choked out before rushing out of Bruce’s study.
…
Bruce messed up. He really, truly messed up.
Those jokes had always gone over so well with Dick. But Jason wasn’t Dick.
Bruce’s mind fixated on the image of Jason standing there. Scared. Bruce had scared Jason. Made him feel unsafe. Bruce thought that after Dick, he was starting to figure out this whole parenting thing. Apparently not.
Dinner was awkward.
Bruce hoped that giving Jason some space was the right move. Alfred disagreed. Dinner was spent in awkward silence, with Alfred giving him a hard stare and the occasional glare. Jason left an empty chair between them and merely pushed his food around the plate. With Alfred’s encouragement, he ate some of it. Jason declined dessert though. Instead, he opted to head up to his room early.
Bruce relegated himself to his study. He sat with an open Word document, trying to figure out what to say to Jason. At this rate, he would break his backspace key.
Bruce’s head snapped up at a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he called. Jason opened the door slowly, backpack slung over his shoulder. He met Bruce’s eye with a determined look, as though steeling himself for the conversation, but Bruce could still catch the remnants of fear in his eyes. He looked a bit like a soldier preparing to head off to war.
“Do you want the door open or closed?” Jason asked, stepping into the room. Bruce didn’t want Jason to feel trapped in his own home.
“Open.”
Jason closed the door.
This was going to be a rough conversation.
“What have you got there?” Bruce asked, tilting his head toward Jason’s bag. Jason gripped the strap a bit tighter.
“Look,” Jason said, completely ignoring Bruce’s question, “If you try and send me back with a social worker—”
“What? No, no. Jason,” Bruce stood and rounded the desk to meet Jason. “You will always have a home here. Always.”
He crouched down and slid the backpack off Jason’s shoulders.
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t trying to get rid of you. From now on I should leave the jokes to Robin, huh?” Bruce scooped up the bag. “Why don’t we go and unpack, hm?”
Trust is something that is built. It was clear Bruce had more work to do with Jason. As he folded Jason’s shirt and set it back in the dresser, Bruce considered how he could make the manor into a home for Jason. Bruce vowed to always leave the door open for his son. Jason was always welcome to come home. Always.
…
Red Hood flipped his guns through the air and caught them, copying the way Nightwing juggled his escrima sticks. It was nice to have his sons together again.
“Be careful,” Bruce reminded them.
Jason sighed dramatically. “I know my way around a gun, old man. God, can I just disown myself from this family?”
“Nope!” Nightwing grinned, slinging an arm around Jason’s broad shoulders. “You’re stuck with us.”
“Pretty sure my adoption expired when I died.”
“I’ll adopt you again,” Bruce said.
“You guys are the worst.”
“Hey, can we get batburger on the way back?” Dick asked, apropos of nothing. “I wanna get the Red Hood figurine.”
“As long as Bruce pays,” Jason agreed.
“You know, it would probably be cheaper for you to just buy the toy.”
Dick gasped. “What, you can’t afford batburger now? I thought you were a billionaire, Bruce.”
“Who let me have this many kids? I suppose it’s too late to unadopt you, huh?”
Dick flipped him off.
Robin’s grappling line shot through the air as he lept off the building with a shout. Nightwing followed close behind, flipping and twisting across buildings. Bruce watched his boys with a fond smile.
When Bruce caught up with them, he found them sparing. Nightwing blocked Tim’s bo staff with his escrima sticks, laughter ringing in the cool night air.
“Good work tonight, boys. Back to the cave.”
“Aw, B, don’t be like that. Ten more minutes?” Tim asked, stifling a yawn.
“Homework done?”
“Uh, mostly?”
“That means no,” Dick chimed in. Tim glared at him.
Bruce shook his head. “Get some rest, Robin. You earned it.” Bruce lifted his cape over Tim’s shoulders and tucked it around his son when Tim sleepily leaned against him with another audible yawn.
“Five more minutes?” Tim tried again. Bruce let out an amused, exasperated huff.
“Why did I adopt another kid?” Bruce joked, patting Tim’s shoulder. Tim’s breath hitched but he dismissed it as another stifled yawn.
“Race back to the cave?” Dick called, one foot on the ledge of the building.
Tim ducked under his cape a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly.
“You’re on.”
…
Bruce hadn’t seen much of Tim the past few days. If Bruce entered a room that Tim was occupying, Tim would leave soon after, often with an excuse of working on homework or a case he needed to check on. Bruce offered to help, but Tim refused.
One morning, Bruce entered the kitchen, and Tim had all but fled the room, claiming he just needed to put his empty coffee mug in the sink. A minute later, Tim’s abandoned toast popped out of the toaster.
Tim was avoiding him.
“Has Tim said anything to you?”
“About?” Alfred questioned with a raised eyebrow. He rinsed the soap off the dish and handed it to Bruce.
“Anything. He seemed upset.”
Alfred frowned and paused. Bruce carefully dried the plate and returned it to the cupboard. Some of the excess water had dripped down Bruce’s sleeves, but he ignored it.
“The boy has been out of the manor for most of this week,” Alfred agreed. “Perhaps you should check in on him. Spend time with the boy.”
“Hm.”
They finished washing and drying the dishes without speaking. A thoughtful quietness permeated the room as Bruce flitted through his memory of the past few days. Most of his days were torn between Wayne Enterprises and Batman. What had he done these past few days that might have upset Tim?
Work.
Patrol.
More work.
More patrol.
Tim and Dick raced across Gotham rooftops and played after patrol. A hitched breath—
Ah.
Perhaps the unadoption jokes weren’t as funny as Bruce initially thought.
…
“Tim? Would you like to watch a movie with me?”
“What about patrol?”
“We can cut patrol short tonight.”
Tim looked like he wanted to protest but stayed quiet.
The Batmobile slid into the Batcave, and Bruce quickly showered and changed into comfy clothes. He headed upstairs and set out a bowl of popcorn with extra butter.
Tim left a good amount of space between them where he sat perched on the edge of the couch, leaning against the armrest.
“Tim?”
“Bruce.”
“You know…” Bruce swallowed, trying to find the right words and willing himself to speak them. “You know I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Oh my god. Are you sick? Fever?” Tim leaned forward to place the back of his hand against Bruce’s forehead. Bruce held Tim’s wrist.
“I’m proud of you and all the work you do.”
“Poison Ivy? No, she’s still in Arkham…Did you update your will recently? I know you’re old, but you’re not that old.”
“Tim.”
“Hmm?”
Bruce tugged Tim’s wrist, pulling him closer and tucking him into his side.
“I realize that I may not have the most animated facial expressions.” Tim lifted an eyebrow as if to say You’re just now figuring that out? “I don’t want any misunderstandings between us, so let me say this: I’m glad I have you in my life; I could never regret adopting you.”
Tim tensed up. “But you said—”
“Never.” Bruce reaffirmed. Tim settled into his side.
“If you’re sure.”
“I am. It was a stupid joke. I’m sorry I hurt you, Tim.”
Tim huffed. “I didn’t realize you had jokes.”
“Not good ones.”
Tim grew drowsy as the movie went on, leaning more and more heavily against Bruce. The pair fell asleep before the credits rolled.
Barbara’s hands flew across the keyboard as she spoke to Bruce. The case wrapped up a tad later than expected, and her father would be arriving at the clock tower shortly to meet her for dinner. Bruce stood stock still as he took measured breaths, eyes staring vaguely toward the monitors. It was hard to track his eyes with the cowl on.
“Holo-room?” Cass asked, tilting her head. Barbara nodded, switching tabs on her computer. Bruce’s gaze followed her as she disappeared behind the door. The average person might not pick up on Bruce’s micro-expressions beneath the cowl, but Barbara Gordon was no average person.
“She’s strong.” Barbara reminded him.
“I know.”
“Fast too.”
“I know. I just…” Bruce looked away.
“…You still worry,” Barbara filled in. Bruce took a deep breath, taking off his cowl. His hands clenched tight around it, the other used to steady him on the desk.
“She’s capable. There’s no doubt about it.” Bruce swallowed, mulling over his words. “But… every time I see her—or any of my kids—standing at the barrel of a gun…”
“Bruce…” Barbara placed a comforting hand on his back.
Bruce straightened, turning his back to her, facing towards the entrance to the holo-room.
“I refuse to freeze again,” Bruce swore. In his voice, Barbara could hear it: the strangling grief, the boy who stood paralyzed in terror as his life was forever changed, the promises he makes whenever he dons the cowl.
“Talk to her.”
“She knows,” Bruce said, voice growing quiet. Barbara refrained from rolling her eyes. Of course, Cassandra knew. She could read body language.
“Doesn’t hurt to hear it,” Barbara rebutted.
Barbara’s phone buzzed loudly against the desk.
“It’s my dad,” Barabara said, bringing the phone to her ear. “I gotta go, but talk to Cass.
…
Cass wiped the sweat off with the back of her hand and accepted the bottle of water Bruce handed her. His posture was rigid, nervous. Cass knew this look.
“Cassandra.”
“Bruce,” She returned.
“Be careful.” Despite his weary face, Cass could read between the lines. She could see the worry and love in the crease of his eyebrows and the softness of his eyes. More importantly, she recognized her own words echoed back at her from that night on the rooftop before Bruce left to contain a prison riot. She remembered the haunting hallucinations when the criminal she tracked down tried to drive her insane. She recalled Bruce’s shadowed figure before he left as she tried to reconcile the false image of him dead at the Joker’s hands with the real, alive Bruce before her. Cass, like Bruce, was never good at words, so she spoke simply to him that night. Two succinct words the only hint that something was wrong: Be careful.
Bruce sighed, plastering on a tired smile. “Why did I ever think it was a good idea to adopt so many kids?”
Cass laughed, sidling up to him, and pulled out a piece of paper. She waved it in front of his face with a mischievous grin. Bruce took the paper, looking over it although he undoubtedly recognized the adoption papers at first glance. He shook his head good-naturedly.
“Of course, you managed to get into the safe,” Bruce ruffled her hair. “I should have expected this.”
“You’ll never be rid of me,” Cassandra promised.
“Good.”
Maybe he was still sleeping. Did Alfred put him on the good pain medication again? Surely, this was not truly happening.
“Good morning, Father,” Damian said.
Bruce rubbed his eyes.
Nope, still there.
“Damian,” Bruce began slowly, “Is that Batcow in our kitchen?”
“Yes.”
Bruce was far too tired for this.
“Perhaps Talia will take you back.” Bruce rubbed a hand down his face, already resigning himself to eating breakfast with a cow.
“And perhaps Alfred would prefer to be employed by a doctor rather than a clown-hating, overdramatic, emo furry, but I suppose we both disappoint our parents.”
Bruce went back to bed.