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Bruce stood at the front of the Manor’s home theater, facing the crowd before him. The Waynes tried to have an official movie night at least every other week, as much as schedules allowed.
“All right, is everyone here?”
He went down the roster. Dick and Barbara were snuggled up in one of the loveseats, with his eldest’s crutches left propped up against his girlfriend's chair. Haley, their three-legged pit bull, was nestled between them. Jason and Ace had settled onto one of oversized beanbag chairs, while Cass and Tim had claimed an entire couch for themselves. And, lastly, Damian, who had just been released from his back brace, sat straight-backed in his chair with his new Great Dane puppy (whom he named Titus) and his kitten (Alfred) curled up in his lap.
Allowing Damian to adopt animals had been Dinah’s idea. They already had Ace, who had been specially trained to help Jason with his PTSD and diabetes, but Dinah had suggested they give the youngest Wayne a pet of his own to care for. She said it would help him learn to form attachments again, since humans still weren’t seen as safe within his vulnerable psyche. Of course, Bruce had intended to allow his son to adopt one pet, but when Damian had fallen in love with both, he hadn’t been able to say “no”. His other children had mocked him for days.
Jason rolled his eyes dramatically. “What? You finally have so many kids that you can’t keep track of us all?”
“For shame,” Tim echoed, taking his nebulizer out of his mouth for a moment. His voice vibrated alongside his electronic vest. He’d just gotten over a mild exacerbation. Nothing he’d had to go to the hospital for, but he wasn’t quite back to his baseline yet. He got tired very quickly and sometimes needed supplemental oxygen, especially after a vest treatment. It was something everyone was keeping a close eye on.
“Yes, because I’m clearly an absentee father,” Bruce countered his a smirk. “Now, who’s turn is it to pick?”
Of course, no matter who picked the movie, there were certain guidelines everyone had to follow, especially now that they had an eight-year-old.
Alfred cleared his throat and pulled out a notebook. “According to the chart, Master Bruce, I believe it to be Miss Cassandra’s choice tonight.”
"I want tiny cowboy and Teddy Roo-se-velt," she sounded out carefully. Her speech was getting better every single day. Bruce couldn't have been prouder of his daughter.
“Night at the Museum,” Dick deciphered. “That’s a good one!”
Damian gave Alfred (the cat) a scratch between the ears. “I have not seen this film, but I do enjoy museums. Is it educational?”
Jason snorted. “I mean, it’s not not educational.”
“Double negatives are improper English,” the youngest corrected primly.
“Your face is improper English!”
Damian’s forehead wrinkled. “I do not understand. The absurdity of that statement is too great.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Jason, don’t harass the baby. I’m not in the mood for a grammar lesson.”
“I am no baby. Apologize, immediately!”
“Yeah, stay out of this, Five Feet Apart.”
“Make me, Baby-Sitters Club!”
“Boys, enough!”
It came out as more of an exasperated groan than authoritative command. Still, Damian froze, seemingly terrified of what was going to happen next.
Thankfully, Dick came to the rescue. “Wow, Papin, would you like some some cheese with that whine?”
That broke any remaining tension. Now, all of his kids were laughing at him. Even Damian, once he saw it was safe, cracked a smile.
Bruce looked to Alfred. “Tell me, Alfred, when did I lose all of my children’s respect?”
The butler looked at him slyly. “Bold of you to assume you ever had it, sir.”
Jason cackled. “Boom, roasted! This is why Alfred’s my favorite.”
“A sentiment I dearly appreciate, Master Jason. Now, before we start the film, I have prepared an array of refreshments, including a protein shake for you, Master Timothy. I have your enzyme tablets here as well. I expect you to drink it as soon as your treatments are finished.”
Tim needed a lot more calories to function compared to the rest of his children. It had taken them a year-and-a-half to get him to a near-healthy weight, double the time that Jason had required. Now, they all did what they could to make sure the boy didn’t lose any ground.
The fifteen-year-old gave Alfred a thumbs up as he switched to his second nebulizer, pausing to cough wetly into a tissue.
Bruce took a look at their spread. They had hot buttered popcorn, as was tradition, but Alfred had also prepared some fresh chocolate chip cookies, tea, and hot chocolate. As usual, he included some sugar-free options for Jason so his blood sugar wouldn’t go crazy overnight.
After gathering a plate full of goodies, Bruce made his way over to his special recliner. He’d ordered it custom-made from Switzerland, as a Father’s Day gift to himself.
They were officially ready to relax for the night.
About forty-five minutes into the film, the soft buzzing of his phone got his attention. He looked down to see he had a text from Cass.
“Tim is breathing weird,” it read.
Bruce’s focus snapped back to Tim. His vest had finished about half-an-hour ago. If he didn’t cleared out all of the mucus in his lungs during his session, sometimes it would resettle in his airway and cause him to become hypoxic. It didn’t happen often with how well his CF was managed, but being post-exacerbation did increase his risk quite a bit.
Luckily, Bruce was what his kids called “a paranoid, overprotective mother hen.”
With the movie still playing, he quietly got up and reached for the bag of Tim’s respiratory supplies he kept close during treatments. Inside were his nebulizers, flutter valve, pulse oximeter, and portable oxygen concentrator.
He took the pulse oximeter out first. Tim was awake, though his eye were half-lidded. His breaths came shallow and fast through his parted lips. The poor kid looked exhausted.
“Hey, bud, I’m just gonna clip this onto your finger for a second,” Bruce whispered as he slid the oximeter onto his son’s pointer finger. Some of his other children noticed and sent worried glances their way, but none of them said anything. They all knew Tim hated being fussed over. He got stressed and embarrassed if he felt like he was inconveniencing anyone by having cystic fibrosis. It was a leftover scar from Jack and Janet that hadn’t fully healed even four years after joining the Wayne family.
88%.
Bruce sighed and reached for the concentrator. He turned the dial to 2L/min then gingerly looped the attached nasal cannula around Tim’s ears.
“M fine,” the teen protested weakly. However, his argument was greatly weakened by the fact he could barely speak.
“We’ll just keep it on until the movie’s over,” Bruce suggested. “Then, we’ll reevaluate. It’s probably just from your vest. Your lungs still aren’t quite up to snuff.”
Tim pouted but didn’t try to remove the oxygen. Bruce counted that as a win.
Within thirty seconds, his son’s oxygen rose to 95%. Good. Satisfied, Bruce sent a thumbs up over to Alfred and mouthed a “thank you” to Cass before returning to his seat. Everyone’s attention was now back on the movie.
Their normal was certainly different than everyone else’s, but Bruce wouldn’t have it any other way.