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Bruce knocks softly on the door before nudging it open. On the opposite hip, he reaffirms his grip on Damian. His youngest son nuzzles into his neck, affectionate in a way Bruce only dreamed of when the boys appeared on his doorstep.
“Morning, Jay,” he murmurs, seeing his second oldest blinking blearily in the early morning light.
Damian straightens at his brother’s name, squirming to get a look. His pudgy fingers grab at the air and Jason locks onto his baby just as quickly.
The blankets have just about swallowed Jay. He can never seem to find enough warmth, even curled up by the fireplace like Bruce sometimes finds him. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, the faint scars on his jaw disappeared under morning paleness. “Mine,” he says after stiffly opening and closing his mouth a few times.
Damian is much in agreement, the four-year-old attempting to wriggle out of his hold with little regard for Bruce’s bruised ribs.
“You need to get up, Jay,” Bruce reminds firmly. He sweeps a hand down Damian’s spine, stilling the boy a moment.
Jason blinks at him.
“Up,” he repeats, gesturing to the door. Jason enjoys routine almost as much as Tim, but he dislikes mornings more than his brother. His body is stiff and uncooperative. Words process slower. Alfred requires him to do his occupational therapy exercises before putting on any audiobooks.
If he allows Damian to curl up on Jason now, it will be an hour of pulling teeth to get either of them moving. Patiently, he waits for Jason to determinedly detach himself from his cocoon and lug his legs to the floor. There’s a handrail at the side of the bed to help him get his balance. Damian continues wriggling, eager to embrace his akhi.
Jason stubbornly stays put.
His older son squints and Bruce realizes that his usually blank look is a genuine lack of comprehension. His pale, sweaty features take on a new meaning.
He fights back a frown, knowing Jay is particularly responsive to Bruce’s bad moods. He sets Damian on the bed and the toddler immediately crawls onto his brother’s chest. “Akhi,” he breathes, relieved, eyes fluttering shut.
Jason whispers something under his breath. He wrangles his left arm from the blankets to tuck Damian closer. Bruce will never have enough of seeing those two safe in each other’s arms.
Unfortunately, Bruce cannot join his sons in a quiet, cuddly morning. He retrieves the infrared thermometer from the basket hanging level to the bed, which immediately has Jason shifting away.
He tugs the roller chair that lives at the foot of Jason’s bed and settles atop it. Looming over Jason is never a good idea. His son grumbles which has Damian drifting back to wakefulness. Bruce found the toddler in Dick’s room this morning, so it’s not a guess that Damian had another nightmare. That in itself should have been a tip off for Bruce. Damian always has a knack for sensing when Jason needs sleep more than Damian needs comfort.
“Damian, could I take your temperature?”
One of the surefire ways to get Jason to do anything is to pose the question to Damian instead. The older boy still taste tests most of Damian’s meals. More of Talia’s training, but Bruce can’t bring himself to diminish the codependency when it brings them such relief.
Sure enough, Jason fumbles with his right hand for the thermometer. His right side is significantly less coordinated now. He tore it apart to escape his grave.
Bruce closes his eyes to stave off the guilt. He can’t control the past.
“I’ll take yours first, Jay. Stay still. Hold,” he adds when his eyes don’t spark with recognition.
It doesn’t take long for Jason’s fever to be revealed. He hisses sympathetically. “You feeling sick, Jaylad?”
Jason bats at the thermometer. Bruce takes Damian’s temperature for posterity. Slightly higher than his baseline, but nothing to worry about. Most likely, Damian picked up something at the park and passed it along to his brother. Bruce just has to hope they can keep the illness contained to one immunocompromised child.
His lungs twitch with the urge to sigh. His hands ache to rest on Jason’s forehead.
“Damian.” He doesn’t swipe his fingers through his child’s hair now that he’s cuddled in his protector’s arms. “Can you keep an eye on Jason for me? I’m going to get some medicine.”
As expected, Damian perks up at that, nodding quickly. The little one is quick to irritate when another attempts to care for his akhi. Bruce mourns all the cold desert nights when his two boys only had each other.
He thanks his son, risking dual sour moods as he kisses two mops of tangled hair, before stepping into the hallway. He squirts some hand sanitizer from the container fixed to the wall outside of Jason’s door, scrubbing it around his hands with the attention of a surgeon. The afterimage of his father’s portrait beats against his eyes. He blinks it away, slipping on a medical mask from the little air sealed box above the sanitizer dispenser.
He turns, catching Tim with a deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Um,” the boy says, holding up a hand placatingly. “I’m not sick.” Despite Tim having free access to the stairs behind him, his eyes dart around. Cornered.
“I know,” Bruce soothes ineffectually. “Jason is under the weather.”
Tim shuffles backward, his left cheek pillow-kissed red and his arms wrapped around his laptop. His fingers tick, tapping intermittently.
“Would you like to come to the kitchen with me?”
“Why?” Tim bites out. Bruce tries to let the suspicion roll off of him. He knows he hasn’t been successful at being gentle with Tim when he needs it. He knows that it’s only compounded Tim’s anxieties around weakness and belonging.
Opening up his body language, loosening the tension in his face, Bruce takes a small step forward. “Because you seemed to be going that way and I will be getting Jason some breakfast and medication. And I enjoy your company.”
Tim runs his molars over the sides of his tongue, a rhythmic little stim undetectable to most. “Okay,” he agrees finally. He doesn’t move, rocking from heels to toes. Tim doesn’t like the feel of cloth on hardwood, nor does he like the feel of carpet on his bare feet. Accordingly, half his laundry is socks. “Are you going to make me wear a mask?”
Bruce’s nose twitches in dissatisfaction. Tim edges back.
“I won’t make you. I will advise you to because colds are often airborne and neither Jason nor Damian are comfortable wearing one.” Jason because of the sensation of being suffocated. Damian because. Well, Bruce isn’t sure if his intolerance for medical masks stems from his age, his trauma, or his sensory sensitivities. All he knows is that the few times they’ve established that Damian needs to wear a mask to visit his brother have resulted in a startling lack of compliance and elopement attempts.
Tim is particular about every fabric that touches his skin, but can manage medical masks, even heavier duty ones, for hour-long spans.
“I don’t want to,” Tim asserts tentatively.
Bruce takes a half-step forward. His son hesitantly does the same. They start down the stairs together, a bridging trust. “I know. Your health and safety are important to me and those are the only reasons I would override your autonomy. And as you said, you are not sick.”
His son twitches, fingers tightening too hard on the railing. At the bottom is a stair lift. Tim is unused to this sort of verbosity. Bruce cringes at his own silence in the wake of Jason’s death. Everything was more difficult under the weight of that grief. He wishes to ruffle Tim’s hair, but refrains, knowing the gesture will be scrutinized for intent.
“I’m going to work from home today,” his son announces, clearly a test.
“Okay,” Bruce agrees.
Tim scowls, thwarted. He’s rather good at triggering Bruce’s need for control, but Bruce saw this one coming from a mile away.
They step to the first floor. Tim peels off his socks with minimal hopping.
“What classes are you focusing on?”
“English.” His jaw tightens in challenge.
Bruce hums. “Jason might not be up for helping today.” Tim usually completes his homeschooling lessons from the Clocktower, enjoying the white noise of Barbara’s servers. If he’s at home while completing his English work, he often consults his literature-inclined brother. It’s more for Jason’s benefit than Tim’s, but it’s a point of connection where they otherwise struggle. “And if you visit him, I would recommend wearing a mask.”
Tim’s eyes brighten, believing himself to find the catch. His thumb taps anxiously against his laptop. “You said you wouldn’t make me,” he notes sharply.
“I am not making you.” It’s best to say these things as clearly as possible. Bruce is improving at it. “I’m recommending. It’s possible Jason’s fever isn’t from a contagion, but you are smart enough to appropriately weigh the risks.”
His son’s posture denatures, his cheeks poking out as he bites at his tongue again. Bruce knows that Tim hasn’t been handling the swing in his guardian’s behavior very well. He knows that he was just as absent as Tim’s parents for most of their relationship. He has been working to break that pattern, but repairing the trust is slow going. His son seems ill at ease now that the predictable forms of Bruce’s demeanor have changed. He weathers Tim’s attempts at finding the new edges.
His son slips ahead to the kitchen and Bruce takes half a moment to breathe.
His house is full. His family is bubbling with life. He is happy.
The weekly movie nights don’t keep at bay the ever-present worry that this all will be lost. The laughter calling from the kitchen doesn’t reassure the gnawing fear that he will break what has been gifted to him.
“Hey, B,” Dick calls when he steps into the breakfast nook. He frowns. “Jay sick?”
He nods, studying his son. Aside from the small twinge between his eyebrows, he seems perfectly fine. He’d still been asleep when Bruce had pulled Damian from his arms half an hour ago, but woke just enough to whine at the light from the hallway. Silently, Bruce celebrates the openness with which Dick shares his pain these days. The performance has been curtained.
“Damian’s with him,” Bruce adds, answering the unspoken question. When one of their immunocompromised family members falls ill, they try to limit interaction to just two members of the household. One, it helps control the spread of any illness. Two, Jason gets overwhelmed by the rush of interchanging siblings when he’s sick and Tim manages to play his companions against each other to get what he wants.
While Damian doesn’t technically count as a caregiver, though he would vehemently dispute that, he does fulfill the role of company quite well. If given the chance, Damian would live pressed in Jason’s arms.
His eldest smiles softly, likely imagining the two contently wrapped together. A common sight. “I can stick around a few more hours if you need help,” he offers. Dick spent most of the week locked in a windowless, soundproofed room recovering from a debilitating migraine. Seeing him eating and sitting and smiling is a relief. He’s obviously eager to get back to his city now that he’s recovered. Bruce’s limbs buzz with appreciation for his eldest, knowing he’s willing to delay his return to ease Bruce’s strain.
Bruce shakes his head. “I keep Thursdays free of meetings and Alfred is home. We should be fine.” If he weren’t bound to the mask, he’d drop a kiss on Dick’s gentle curls. He’s missed his son. Only Alfred is permitted to attend to Dick when a migraine hits. He suppresses the urge to ask if Dick took his medications. For him to rate his pain.
His son fluidly stands, as if sensing the slipping self-control, tugging Bruce into a tight hug. He relishes at the contact. Dick is his only child without reservations when it comes to touch and he never realized how important the gesture was until Jason’s Alley-wariness stared down his open arms.
“Cass is looking for you,” his eldest advises as he pulls away, giving Bruce’s arm a final squeeze. Bruce raises an eyebrow and Dick gives a half shrug. “I should get going. Give Jay a hug for me, don’t adopt anyone, get Damian a cat.”
“Those last two are contradictory,” he huffs as Dick’s laughter carries him out the door.
He scoops up Dick’s forgotten bowl and carries it to the kitchen. On a tray, two lidded cups wait on the counter, one half as tall as the other. Alfred catches Bruce’s eye with loving warmth. He adds a syringe and a small liquid analgesic prescription bottle. “I added a dash of honey,” he informs softly, tapping the cups.
Bruce can’t help the way his eyes crinkle with affection. His father in all but name returns the look.
Behind him, Tim rifles through the pantry and triumphantly pulls out the caramel rice cakes. They carry almost no nutritional value, but Tim struggles with nausea in the mornings and refuses to eat the heavier breakfast more suited for their nightly activities. Bruce privately thinks if his son ever slept a full night, the nausea would subside. Still, he refuses to blame Tim for his insomnia, even if his son takes almost no steps for better sleep hygiene.
Leaning against the counter is Stephanie. She’s carefully balancing an extremely full bowl of cereal. Special K, which Bruce doesn’t consider particularly fancy, but Stephanie insists is ‘the bougie stuff.’ She stares him in the eye as she sips some of the milk off the top.
“Good morning,” he greets her because Alfred has finally gotten it into his head that why are you here is not an appropriate way to address guests.
She grunts, shoveling cereal into her mouth. Alfred gives her an expression mixed with concern, gentility, and fondness.
He takes the dish from Bruce’s hands, a disappointed eyebrow as if Bruce is at fault for Dick not rinsing out his egg bowl.
“Morning,” Stephanie answers after half her bowl is empty. She has personal gripes with how soggy cereal can become.
Tim steps beside her, leaning his cheek on her shoulder. One of her hands comes to press against her stomach, eyes clenching shut in pain. Cramps, ones Barbara insists are abnormally strong and Stephanie insists are perfectly normal.
Choosing not to address what will only get him flack for the compounding offenses of not being her dad and not having a uterus, Bruce instead rummages through the refrigerator. “Did you spend the night?” Not unheard of, but not typical.
“Nope.”
Informative, Bruce thinks. “Is school not in session?”
Her spoon plinks against her empty bowl. “Late start, bi- B-man.”
Bruce pulls two cinnamon applesauces from the back of the bottom shelf, behind the pomegranate juice Cass enjoys.
“I see.” Generally speaking, Bruce enjoys Stephanie’s company. This wasn’t always true. Before this last year, her presence was too painful, her personality too similar to that of Jason. Every feisty remark, every surge to protect a civilian, every soft reassurance to a child. It all weighed too heavy.
Now that his son is blessedly returned to him, he is able to separate the two with some efficacy. Even if, in the private folds of his mind, he can’t help but wonder if Stephanie will grow into the person Jason would have been.
He lets out a sigh, straightening his aching back. “You are always welcome here,” he says because it is true.
She gives him an overcompensating grin. “Sure thing, B-Man. Who else is going to eat you out of house and home?”
His heart only twinges a little.
Setting the applesauces on the tray, he goes to get two spoons only for Alfred to hold them out.
Tim tugs Stephanie out of the kitchen as Bruce thanks his father. He receives a warm smile. It settles the fuzzy worry in his chest.
He knows that Jason being sick isn’t an immediate crisis. Illness is harder on his son than most, but this has always been true. His injuries from the past four years have worsened his immune reserves, but not completely obliterated them. He’ll bounce back, even if the next few days will be difficult and the next few weeks will be tiring.
Jason is home. He brought Damian home. He tied the whole family together. He saved Bruce.
A warm, dry hand rests over his own. “He will be alright,” Alfred assures. “He is a strong boy.”
His eyes grow wet. “I know.” He doesn’t allow the tears to fall. Jason doesn’t like to see him sad.
Gripping the tray firmly, Bruce sets off for Jason’s room. Stephanie and Tim have their heads bowed together in the breakfast nook, looking at Tim’s laptop with extreme concentration. He hears the royalty free music of an impending meme compilation.
On the stairs, Bruce gains a shadow. “Morning, Cassie,” he greets.
She slips into step on his left side. She taps once on the tray.
“Jason isn’t feeling well.”
A small frown flits across her lips.
“Dick said you were looking for me.”
She nods. Her fingers flutter for a moment. Little by little, she’s been learning American Sign Language. She doesn’t seem to like it all that much, preferring to make her thoughts clear in other ways. Pointing and facial expressions have gotten their family very far.
There are a few words in English that she’ll voice, but much like Jason, those words disappear on difficult days. Damian has also taught her a bit of Arabic, but she only speaks it with him.
Written language has been put off for the time being, which is why it’s surprising when Cass pulls out her phone. To his knowledge, she unlocks the device solely to trade selfies with Stephanie and Barbara.
He squints at the screen. There is a photo of a tablet with chunky, colorful buttons. There are pictures on the bright squares with a small text label on the bottom.
“An AAC device?”
He’s communicated with a few witnesses who use such devices. There’s a study at Gotham General hospital currently running trials with teaching Joker gas-affected patients to use them. He’ll be interested to read the final dissertation, but initial EMRs from nurses on staff indicate preliminary success.
“They have much utility.”
His daughter nods. Points to herself.
“Would you like one?”
Hesitation flickers over the bridge of her nose. She shrugs. Points to the larger of the two smoothies.
“Jason may benefit from one, but I am skeptical he would use it.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Because he is very stubborn, like all my children. He is working very hard in speech therapy and I think he would struggle with another piece of assistive technology when so much of his life has changed already.”
His son started journaling, even though his fingers ache while holding a weighted pencil. Bruce only catches glimpses of what he writes in jagged, too-large letters, mindful of his own eidetic memory. The little journal is filled with the things Jason has forgotten.
It was Damian who cleanly articulated Jason’s retrograde amnesia. His ability to form memories has also been altered to an extent, although operant and classical conditioning techniques prove effective. Talia’s cruel and crass intervention. Acid shame douses Bruce every time he takes advantage of her teachings.
He thinks Jason’s embarrassment would become too great if he were offered an AAC device.
Bruce wouldn’t agree. But he doesn’t wish for Jason to feel any less than he is. To believe his hard work has been diminished.
Cassandra, however, would flourish if she chose to use such a device. She understands more and more spoken language every day. She craves words, but flounders when using them.
He nudges his daughter softly. “I’ll speak with Dr. West and order one,” he promises.
Her dark eyes glitter up at him. Gratitude and love and excitement.
He reaches the top of the steps and loses his shadow. Another squirt of hand sanitizer—a practice he should use anytime visiting Jason and Tim, but fails to because the scent is now associated with negative memories for both boys—and he returns to two of his sons.
He sets the tray in his lap as he sits in the far corner, a well-loved arm chair that he’s fallen asleep in innumerable times.
“Damian,” he calls, rousing the first of his sleeping boys. His smallest son shifts, mumbling softly under his breath. “Sweetheart, wake up.”
His baby cracks an eye open, then another. “Baba,” he whispers, still a little dazzled that he is no longer in the desert.
Bruce smiles, cheeks stretching pleasantly. “Hi, Damian. Can you wake up your brother for me?”
The boy considers this, unendingly serious, and nods. He shifts until he is sitting rather than laying on Jason’s chest. Bruce cringes for his son’s ribs and claustrophobia, even though Damian’s presence has never bothered either. His small, pudgy fingers trace along Jason’s nose, faintly crooked from being repeatedly broken and repaired. It’s such a toddler motion that Bruce can’t breathe for a moment. The preciousness of his child swoops through him.
“Akhi,” Damian whispers. “You must wake up.” Painfully articulate, for Bruce knows that Damian was not allowed to speak if his words weren’t crisp.
Jason’s eyes flicker for a moment before opening, a soft smile curling as he takes in his brother. He forces his left arm up to flatten Damian against his chest again.
“Jaybird,” Bruce calls.
His son stiffens in gauzy confusion, but Damian pats his cheek in reassurance. Slowly, they coax Jason to sit up and then on his feet to lumber into the bathroom. Bruce stays out of their way, knowing that his presence is equally likely to reassure and frighten his older son. There’s a pinch of concentration in Jason’s brow, jumbled wakefulness finally slotting into place. He breathes heavily, congested, one hand on the railing to his bathroom and the other in Damian’s tight grip.
Another reason Bruce suspects Jason wouldn’t use an AAC device: his son has refused almost every mobility aid offered to him. Several walkers and canes have been thrown out the window in protest, Jason asserting again and again that he won’t rely on one, even when the pain is unbearable and his stuttering body sloshes in imbalance.
Jason’s fever-bright eyes find his own just before he steps into the bathroom. His mouth opens. He doesn’t say anything.
Damian tugs him once more and they disappear.
Probably, most parents would feel strange about their four-year-old assisting their eighteen-year-old with the bathroom. Bruce does.
With so much interrupted in their dynamic by coming home, Bruce knows that the two find comfort in these smaller moments of relying on each other.
He hears the toilet flush and the soft tapping of Damian’s feet on the step stool, crawling up to deliver Jason the soap.
Even with Jason feeling sick and clearly wanting to stay in bed indefinitely, Bruce is relieved that he’s used the toilet close to on schedule. Jason doesn’t normally struggle with incontinence, but there have been a handful of accidents on bad pain days that have left him incredibly embarrassed.
The amble back to bed is similarly slow. Neither boy startles at his continued presence so he considers this a success.
“Breakfast, boys?”
Damian has himself flush with Jason’s side, soaking in his brother’s warmth. He nods hesitantly, waiting for the words to process for his brother.
“Breakfast please,” Damian finally agrees on Jason’s behalf. His son’s unfocused gaze is slanted toward the window. They keep it unblocked, nothing easing his son’s nightmares better than the moon above. Well, nothing that isn’t Damian, who has only just started sleeping in his own room.
Bruce passes over the two smoothies—Jason habitually taking a sip of Damian’s before allowing his brother to drink.
Quietly, he retrieves from the hanging basket Jason’s pill organizer and a little pill crusher. On good days, Jason swallows his pills with water, but his slack face is enough evidence that today is not a good one. Still, he sets the device in Jason’s lap. His son snatches it up, a touch wary, methodically examining it.
Damian slurps his smoothie, observing.
After a few minutes, Jason hands it back to Bruce rather than returning it to the basket.
It’s peaceful, mixing Jason’s now powdered medications into one of the applesauces while the boys happily sip on their extra sweet breakfast smoothies. Sunlight pours through the window. His breath puffs against the blue mask.
Through the house, his children roam. By now, Stephanie has called herself in sick at school to keep Tim company and rest her own aching body. Cass has probably found them, content to be read to in the hours before her speech therapy. Dick will send a pleasant message when he returns home, easing the constant buzz of worry whenever his eldest sets off again. Alfred will come retrieve the cups when the boys are done, allowing Bruce to sit with them a while longer.
It will be a restful day. The early morning boundary wheedling will subside as everyone pushes out peace on Jason’s behalf. And there will be future days of rushing excitement, triumphant growth, and rustling joy.