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Bruce can admit that he’s not the most well versed in emotional vulnerability. Years of unmanaged grief that manifested itself into vigilantism have hardened him to a point where he no longer feels comfortable voicing his thoughts and feelings.
It’s easy to put on an act in the public eye. He smiles and schmoozes and pretends like the women draping themselves over him don’t make him feel trapped. That their attempts at a sultry voice don’t grate his ears so intensely it makes him want to scream. It’s a mission, a goal, something well within Bruce’s capabilities.
But privately, he loses it all. While his parents loved to dote on him for their brief appearance in his life, Alfred was never one for physical or verbal affection. He showed his love through sliced fruit and displeased tutting whilst bandaging cuts.
Bruce liked to think he was generally similar in that regard. He never told the man that he loved him, but he always made sure Alfred had time off for himself. He never had much of a reason to work on his emotional intelligence because he spent most of his time alone.
Until Dick came along.
Dick Grayson was a spitfire from the moment Bruce met him. Naive and filled with a righteous sense of injustice, Dick immediately set out to right the wrongs done to his parents. Dick wore his heart on his sleeve, his kaleidoscope of emotions a stark contrast to Bruce’s own.
Bruce didn’t know how to handle it at first. Dick had many mood swings in the beginning, going from happy-go-lucky to angry and vengeful in one afternoon. It was entirely overwhelming and Bruce spent many nights wondering if he made the right choice.
But one night when Dick was ten, after a particularly rough patrol that ended in the boy’s broken nose, something clicked. Dick was sitting in the medical bay, tears gathering in his eyes as his nose began to darken. His fingers tapped against the chair anxiously, lips curling in an attempt to hide his winces of pain. He was still dressed in his robin suit, with Bruce’s cape practically swallowing him whole.
Bruce felt a rush of fondness and worry for his ward from his place at the bar computer. Out of pure instinct, he pushed himself up and walked towards Dick, who perked up at the sight of him.
“B! B!” He said nasally, wincing as his grin pulled on the injury, “Alfie said he’s gonna make chocolate chip cookies because I broke my nose!”
Bruce couldn’t hold back a chuckle, crossing his arms. “Did he now?” He asked.
Dick hummed, eyes crossing to look at the Batman bandage adorning his nose, “That guy had a good right hook.”
Bruce huffed, eyes darkening. Without thinking much, he leans forward, hand reaching out to tuck Dick’s wayward curls behind his ear. His eyes dart concernedly over the reset nose, looking around Dick’s face for other injuries.
When he found none, he sighed, pulling Dick close. The boy froze for a moment before melting into the touch.
“Don’t scare me like that again, you hear?” Bruce asked.
Dick nodded, a small grin forming on his face. “Does that mean I can still patrol?”
Bruce rolled his eyes, pressing a kiss to Dick’s hair. Dick preened at the attention, his grin growing wider.
“You’re funny,” Bruce said, “No.”
Even years later, when Dick glared and shouted and left home angrily, he could be calmed by simple touches from Bruce. When he grew his hair out and barely came back to the manor, he’d run his own fingers through the strands, pretending it was his father’s.
——
Jason was an entirely different ball game. Even though Bruce had fucked up magnificently with Dick, he thought he’d grown enough as a father to handle a boy like Jason Todd.
Jason did not grow up with the love Dick had. Catherine Todd, when she was sober, was a good woman who loved her son. But she was rarely ever sober. Bruce seethes when he thinks about Willis Todd. Jason lived on the unforgiving Gotham streets, forced to hunker down in Crime Alley where most forms of affection were twisted and acidic.
Jason came into Wayne Manor baring his teeth. He hissed and glared and didn’t trust a soul that wandered through the house, even if it was just Bruce and Alfred.
Robin gave him an out, and slowly, Bruce discovered who Jason Todd really was. An excitable, kind, determined boy who was eager to make Gotham a better place. He learned to trust Bruce and Alfred as time went on. Dick started coming by more often, and though their relationship started rocky, Jason had come to trust his brother as well.
When Dick was 12, he got the flu. Bruce was up all hours of the night for a week helping his son get to the toilet or the bath or getting water and medicine. In that time, he developed a sixth sense for knowing something was wrong with his child, even in the dead of sleep.
Which is why, at approximately 3:24 A.M., Bruce sat up from his bed with a gasp without any rhyme or reason. Instinctually, though, he knew something was wrong. He swung his legs over the bed, throwing on his robe, and hurried down the hall. When Jason first arrived at the manor, he chose the bedroom closest to the staircase, for quicker exits.
Against his better judgement, Bruce opened the door without knocking. He’s not sure why, he just knows the panic in his chest is overwhelming and he can’t wait any longer. What greets him on the other side is Jason, thrashing and sobbing in his bed. Nightmare, Bruce thinks.
Immediately, he’s by Jason’s side, putting one hand gently on his shoulder and shaking lightly.
“Jason, Jay, it’s a nightmare bud, you gotta wake up.” He says.
Jason grunts and kicks, his eyebrows scrunching in pain or fear. Bruce leans even further, shaking his son’s shoulders.
“Jason, wake up, c’mon, you can do it.” Bruce says.
Jason’s eyes pop open, nearly ramming his forehead into Bruce’s own. His eyes dart around, searching for threats, but he relaxes minutely when he takes in his surroundings. He catches eyes with Bruce, who smiles gently, and immediately tears up.
“I thought- I thought-” Jason stutters, wiping some of the sweat off his forehead.
Bruce nods, “I know, I know, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
He keeps his hands to himself, knowing Jason might react violently to touch in his current state. The boy breathes out shakily, leaning back onto his pillows. He sniffles, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes.
Without thinking too much, Bruce leans forward slowly, showing all his movements for Jason to see. He places the pads of his fingertips against Jason’s forehead. The boy freezes for a moment, body going tense, before his eyes catch on the gentle look on Bruce’s face and relaxes..
Bruce traces his fingertips from Jason’s forehead to the bridge of his nose, to his cheekbones, his chin, then back up the same path. He circles Jason’s forehead slowly, a soothing repetition that makes his boy smile gently.
Within minutes, Jason’s sleeping again, his face lax and breaths soft. Bruce smiles, rubbing his thumb over Jason’s cheekbone.
“Goodnight, Jaybird.” He whispers, carefully moving off the bed and shutting the door behind him.
Bruce traced the same pattern moments before Jason’s casket was closed. His face was relaxed, his body unmoving, and if Bruce ignored the lack of rise and fall in his chest, it almost looked like Jason was just asleep.
——
Bruce didn’t want Tim Drake. Mere months after his Jason died, Tim barreled into his life with righteous determination. When Bruce discovered he’d figured out the family secret by watching TV, he knew Tim Drake would be a force to be reckoned with.
Bruce isn’t proud of his first few months with his new Robin. Every time he turned and saw the red, green, and yellow, Jason’s name was on his tongue. Every time a quip came from his lower right, Bruce wanted to chastise a dead boy.
And worst of all, Tim was good. A certified genius, well on his way to surpassing Bruce in detective skills. He followed orders, cracked cold cases, trained day and night.
He couldn't stand to look at the boy. Bruce couldn’t even manage to choke out a simple ‘good job’ after a long night. He sent the kid back to his empty manor.
Bruce sent him away. Tim came back stronger, sharper, deadlier. The only Robin to have ever been trained by someone other than Bruce, and it showed.
And still, Bruce didn’t appreciate Tim the way he should’ve. Dick came home, absolutely livid about Tim’s presence, and stormed off. Bruce didn’t speak to Tim for a week.
Slowly, things got better. Dick took Tim under his wing and Bruce found himself able to breathe around the boy. He learned that Tim loved to skateboard, and now there’s scratches all over the cave floor. He learned that Tim was an absolute geek, and now comics and posters cover the bedroom the boy was given. He learned that Tim could sleep anywhere and everywhere.
Most importantly, Bruce learned that Tim took to touch like a sponge to water. Jack and Janet Drake, renowned archeologists and Gotham socialites, loved their son. They really did. They just didn’t show it well. They sent their son off to boarding schools while they galavanted across the world. They hugged and kissed him when they returned home, but it wasn’t enough.
One night, after a particularly rough 17 hour stakeout, Bruce found Tim asleep on top of the island in the kitchen. Clad in one of Dick’s Nightwing sweatshirts and Gotham Academy sweatpants, Tim snored loudly, his cheek pressed into the marble.
Bruce chuckled to himself, pulling out his phone and snapping a picture. It’s only fair, considering how much blackmail the kid has of Batman and Robin.
He tiptoed into the room, watching out for squeaky steps that Alfred hasn’t replaced yet. Tim snuffled slightly as Bruce inched closer, lips smacking together. Bruce reached out, cupping Tim’s cheek, rubbing his thumb on the dark bags under the boy’s eyes. His cheek was cool, which wasn’t entirely unusual considering Tim ran a bit colder.
Tim leant into the touch like a cat, rubbing his cheek into Bruce’s palm. He sighed at the warmth, settling in his sleep. Bruce knew better than to move him, so he sat on one of the stools, keeping his hand still and watching Tim as he slept.
The day Bruce returned from the timestream, he woke up in a hospital bed. He blinked blearily, immediately noticing the presence to his left. Drooling on the edge of the bed was Tim, thinner and battle worn. Bruce reached a shaky hand out, placing his palm on his son’s cheek. Tim shuddered, but did not wake.
——
Sons, Bruce knew how to deal with. For all of their differences, his three boys were remarkably similar in some regards. They all had bottomless pits for stomachs, none of them could keep their rooms clean, and they all had a recklessness streak a mile wide.
A daughter, however, was different. Cassandra entered Wayne Manor like a ghost. Lacking in speaking and writing skills and traumatized at the hand of her father. Her eyes were dark, nearly black, and all too knowing. She had deadly precision and a phantom-like quietness about her.
David Cain could rot in hell.
Cassandra wasn’t one for taking up space, curling herself in corners and in shadows. Many mornings, Bruce would nearly walk right past her on the way to the kitchen.
But she was inherently kind. And incredibly curious. When taught new words, she’d sound them out, beaming when she nailed the pronunciation. Shiva had been brutal in her training, her forms of affection even more so. She despised the fact that Cass had been taken under Bruce’s wing and didn’t hide it.
Yet, Cass remained rock-solid in her beliefs. She joined the team as Orphan, slinking through Gotham’s many shadows and attacking when least expected. Very quickly, Bruce’s sons had taken to her. Whilst a bit hesitant at first, they’d all come to respect her.
One night, when all of his boys were gone from the manor, Cass padded down to the living room where Bruce was going over some cases. She stared at him for a moment before sitting down directly in front of him.
“Cass? Is everything alright?” Bruce asked.
Cass merely blinked up at him before thrusting a hair tie into his hand. He looked down at it, then back to her.
“You want me to do your hair?” Bruce clarified.
Cass nodded. “Braid.” She said simply.
Bruce acquiesced, gathering Cass’s hair from the back of her neck. He has vague memories of doing this for his mother, and then much later for Dick when he was sick.
He tugged his fingers through the strands, scratching her scalp. Cass melted into the touch, leaning back as he moved down her hair. Bruce braided absentmindedly, Pride and Prejudice playing in the background. By the time he was tying the final knot, Cass was asleep, her cheek digging into Bruce’s knee.
In the months that followed, Cass would come to Bruce when she needed to be grounded. The soothing repetition of her hair being played with relaxed her. Bruce found himself learning all types of intricate braids and hairstyles for his daughter to wake up to.
The small grin on her face when she looked in the mirror was worth every hand cramp.
——
After three sons and a daughter with varying personalities entered his home, Bruce thought he had parenting down pat. He should’ve known that train of thought would come back to bite him in the ass.
He has a son. A biological son. His own flesh and blood stares back at him, eyes dark and cold, too much so for a child his age. He enters the manor like it’s his own palace, making demands and sneering at anyone who gets in his way.
Damian Al Ghul has no idea what it’s like to be a child. Raised by Talia and the Demon’s Head, Damian was born to be an assassin and lived up to that expectation well. The katana he carries gleams under the cave’s lights, Damian’s own sadistic smirk glinting along with it. He makes threats and shouts orders, he has no respect for Alfred or any of Bruce’s other sons.
I am the blood son, he screams, turning his weapon on Tim, I deserve to be Robin!
Bruce doesn’t have enough time to deal with that particular situation before he’s lost in time. Months swirl together, a nauseating backwash of colors, before he’s spit out in front of the Justice League. He spends two weeks in recovery, Tim by his side for only a moment before he completely disappears.
Dick and Damian follow. Dick crushes him in a hug. Damian hangs back, face tense and unsure. It’s a stark contrast to the impulsive and angry boy he left behind.
He finds, later, that Damian has mellowed out, if only slightly. He finds that Damian had achieved his goal of becoming Robin, much to the detriment of Tim, who has yet to reappear. Jason comes by the manor once, sticks his head in Bruce’s bedroom, and leaves.
The next few months are illuminating. Bruce learns to adjust with his new Robin. Damian can be reckless and impatient, but he’s a strong fighter with a knack for problem solving. Damian loves animals. There’s cats and dogs and cows in the house, much to Alfred’s (the human) displeasure. He loves art, and excels at it too, his drawings scattered around the manor and the cave. He has his own art room, with multiple easels and drawing mediums.
Under all the tough skin, the biting remarks and seething insults, is a soft, curious boy. Someone Damian could’ve always been if Bruce had known about him sooner. It grieves him to think about the life his son lived with the League of Assassins, forced to kill and maim at such a young age.
Yet, Damian persists, overcoming odds and learning from his mistakes. He apologizes to his brothers- and understands that, despite them not being biological, that’s exactly what they are. He giggles and lets Dick chase him around, he stomps his feet angrily and goes to museums with Tim. He lets Jason ruffle his hair and always eats all the mango that Alfred cuts up for him.
It takes years, and it’s not perfect, but Damian unlearns the poisonous thoughts embedded into his brain by the league. He unspools the tight threads that had defined his life for so long. Damian is smart and witty and kind. He’s 13 years old and already better than Bruce ever could’ve wished for.
Damian gets hurt one night, caught unawares by a thug. He gets a metal pipe to the back, the rusty, jagged edges scraping into his skin. It’s not deep, and Alfred has him stitched up in a matter of minutes, but Bruce still finds himself shaken. The boy is just putting on a loose T-shirt- Jason’s- holding back winces of pain.
“You alright?” Bruce asks.
Damian looks up at him, his green eyes so painfully like Bruce’s mothers, and nods, “Fine.”
Bruce looks him over, sighing in relief when he sees no further injuries. Despite the massive height difference, Bruce leans down, pressing his forehead to Damian’s and cupping his cheeks.
Damian’s eyes are wide and so, so green. He looks younger like this, and it squeezes Bruce’s heart. He runs a hand through Damian’s hair, stroking the short strands at the back.
“You let me know if that changes, okay?” He asks.
Damian visibly swallows, but nods, “Okay.”
——
Duke Thomas is not Bruce’s son. Duke has parents, ones who were loving and kind, even if presumed dead. The boy made it perfectly clear when he first moved to the manor that Bruce is not, and would never be his father. Bruce respects that, and he never intends to replace Duke’s parents.
But… Duke is his kid. He cares for and loves Duke as if he were his own. His heart lurches in fear when the boy gets hurt, and soars whenever he excels at something in school.
Duke is ferocious and protective. He’s smart as a whip and an incredibly capable fighter. Bruce was nervous at first, to take in a meta, but quickly found his worries soothed by how well the boy uses them.
Everyone loves Duke, taking him under their wing without any fuss. It’s easy to get along with the boy, his wit and humor mixing perfectly with the others. He’s sarcastic and competitive and every bit of a Wayne as the rest of the house.
It almost made Bruce laugh, how easy the transition was with Duke. The boy was shy and hesitant at first, not quite so used to the chaotic family dynamics, but slowly came around, coming out of his shell.
Bruce leans against the doorway of one of the sitting rooms where the family is gathered playing Monopoly. There’s screaming and fighting and cards thrown, but nobody’s leaving or insulting anyone else. Everybody’s smiling. Duke is laying back on Dick’s chest, cackling loudly at Tim’s misfortune. He perks up at the sight of Bruce, eyes lighting up excitedly.
“Bruce! Bruce! Guess what?” Duke asks, launching himself out of Dick’s lap, making the elder boy grunt.
Bruce feels his own smile widening, Duke’s grin infectious and bright. “What, Duke?” He asks.
“I got 678 grapples in a row!” Duke says, “New record!”
Bruce grins wider, hooking an arm around Duke, who laughs. His other children smile at the scene, shaking their heads in amusement.
“Congratulations, bud. You’ll beat me soon enough, huh?” Bruce teases.
Duke laughs again, nodding. He doesn’t move from his spot under Bruce’s arm, much to Bruce’s delight.
“You gotta beat me first,” Jason says, “1,062. Took me three hours.”
That prompts an argument, unsurprisingly. Bruce ignores the shouting and hitting in favor of looking down at Duke, whose grin has yet to leave. He tugs the boy closer, shaking his shoulder slightly.
Duke smiles up at him, eyes crinkling.
——
Bruce is… exhausted.
He’d gotten a total of 10 hours of sleep in the last week thanks to a particularly rough Arkham breakout that led to no less than 6 broken noses, 3 concussions, 4 fear gas incidents, 1 bout of cuddle pollen, and enough stress to give Bruce a headache to last a year.
Now, he’s up at ass crack o’clock (10 A.M.) because he has a lunch meeting for WE in a few hours. His only solace is that Tim will be there too. He tried to get the boy to sleep, considering how long he’d been staring at his laptop dealing with reports and strategies, but his kid is stubborn to boot.
Cass wanders in about halfway through his cup of coffee. He smiles tiredly at her, and she returns it, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his cheek before turning to rummage through the fridge.
She pulls out a cup of yogurt, sitting down by the leg of Bruce’s chair and peeling it open.
Next to follow is Dick, much too chipper for how long he’d stayed out the previous night. He walks through the door with a radiant smile, practically skipping towards the cereal.
“Morning, B!” He says cheerily.
“Hm.”
Dick chuckles, pulling a chair next to Bruce’s and tucking himself into Bruce’s side. He chomps on his cereal- dry, for some reason- loudly. His hair tickles Bruce’s cheek.
Tim staggers into the room like a zombie, laptop under his armpit. His eyes are half closed as he shuffles into the kitchen. Tim walks around the table, pressing his head in between Bruce’s and Dick’s.
Dick chuckles, reaching behind him to card his fingers through Tim’s hair. The boy practically purrs, leaning into the touch.
“Mornin’ baby bird.” Dick whispers. Tim says something but it’s muffled by his face being stuffed into Bruce’s shoulder.
He feels a light pressure where Tim’s mouth should be and turns his head to find the boy’s teeth sunken slightly into Bruce’s shirt.
“Tasty?” Bruce asks.
Tim merely detaches himself with a hum and gets back up, walking towards his energy drink stash blearily. His teeth left little imprints in Bruce’s shirt, making him chuckle.
Jason walks in a few minutes later, looking absolutely exhausted. He’d stayed the night without much fuss, which should’ve been a sign to how tired he was.
He’s so tired in fact, that he mimics Dick’s position once he acquires a protein bar. Cass gives up her position on Bruce’s side, sliding next to Tim on top of the counter. Jason takes her place, eyes sliding shut as his head falls on Bruce’s shoulder.
He knows this wouldn’t be happening if Jason was all there, but he’ll take what he can get. Dick coos, lifting his phone to snap a picture.
It should be no surprise that Duke is next. The Arkham breakout had been so bad, Signal had to be brought in to help. Normally, Duke is an early riser, but not today.
The boy stumbles to the counter, nearly hitting his hip on the corner before Cass pulls him away. He grins sleepily at her before moving towards Bruce. He drops to his hands and knees, crawling nearly under the table and shoving Dick’s legs out of the way. He sits criss cross applesauce right up against Bruce’s leg, closing his eyes.
Tim laughs raspily, “Bruce is a human pillow.”
Cass smiles, leaning her head on Tim’s shoulder.
Finally, Damian arrives, still in his pajamas. It’s a testament to how tired he is if he’s willingly walking around the house in inside clothes. His eyes are puffy from his broken nose, making it look like he’s sleepwalking.
Without much preamble or consideration for the boys next to Bruce, Damian climbs into his fathers lab, stuffing his face into Bruce’s neck without saying a word.
Bruce can feel Damian’s small breaths on his neck, and the soft rise and fall of Jason’s and Dick’s chest. He reaches down, blindly smoothing back Duke’s hair.
He watches fondly as Tim and Cass nearly fall asleep standing up, leaning against each other on the counter. It’s quiet in the kitchen, the sunlight peeking through the frosted window.
It’s everything Bruce could’ve asked for and more. Maybe he’s not so good at the whole verbal affection thing. There’s other ways to do it.
He’s their father. He’ll make sure they know he loves them in any way he can.