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Sunday brunch was sacred in the Wayne household.
It was something that was heavily enforced within the family. No one was allowed to skip barring a legitimate emergency (not including, of course, the one weekend out of every month that Bruce had to work).
This Sunday started out normally: Alfred and Jason both got up early to cook the massive feast while everyone else went about their morning routines. Dick, as usual, had spent Saturday night at the Manor so he didn’t have to make the drive (and therefore could sleep in later). Barbara usually stayed with him, but this week she had elected to spend the Sunday with her father since Jim was off.
The table was set at exactly 10:45. Jason and Alfred had outdone themselves: homemade scones, waffles, eggs, bacon, and even hashbrown casserole. Bruce sat at the head of the table and sipped on his coffee while the rest of his children filtered in.
Damian arrived first, which was very typical. His youngest pulled out his usual chair, flinching a bit as it made a noise scraping against the floor. His gaze flickered to his father, and Bruce was very careful to keep his face neutral. After a moment of internal deliberation, Damian sat down without “fixing” it.
“Good job, Habibi,” Bruce praised softly. Damian had been working very hard in therapy since his OCD diagnosis. Some days were definitely better than others, so Bruce knew the importance of positive reinforcement.
“Thank you, Father,” Damian replied, looking quite proud of himself. “I trust that you're having a good morning thus far?”
Bruce smiled as he took another sip of his coffee. “I am, Damian. Thank you for asking. It’s always a good day when all of my children are home.”
Cass came down next. She stopped and gave Bruce a kiss on his cheek before settling into the chair next to him. “Good morning, Dad.”
“Good morning, Cassie. Did you happen to get proof of life on your brothers before coming down?”
“Dick is in the bathroom,” his daughter explained. “Tim is finishing his vest. I made sure he was awake.”
His second youngest had gotten into a bad habit of staying up all until the wee hours of the morning. What the seventeen-year-old did all night, he didn’t know. The one time Bruce had asked him, Tim had simply shrugged and muttered something vague about the Japanese stock markets. He decided not to ask anymore after that (though he did attempt to put a strict bedtime in place).
And speak of the Devil.
“Good morning,” Tim said over a yawn as he entered the room. He dropped into the seat on the other side of Cass. “Is there coffee?”
Bruce passed the carafe. “Just drink water with your meds, please.”
The teen blew out a sigh of relief. “God bless you.”
Each one of his kids had a pill organizer in front of their usual seat. Cass’s and Damian’s only contained a few generic vitamins (Bruce was especially religious about these during cold and flu season). Jason’s main medication for his diabetes was insulin, but he was still on a couple of oral medications for his PTSD and anxiety. Dick’s and Tim’s, on the other hand, were pretty dang full.
Tim knocked back his handful of pills like the chronically ill veteran he was. Then, he grabbed his specially-requested cookie dough creamer off of the table and dumped a disturbing amount into his coffee.
Damian looked disgusted. “How you drink that filth, I’ll never understand.”
“Listen, when you have to eat at least 4,000 calories a day, you do what you gotta do,” his brother shrugged. “Besides, it’s delicious.”
Jason snorted as he settled into his seat. He and Alfred had just finished placing all of the food on the table. “Whatever you say, Tim-Tam.”
Finally, Dick joined them.
Bruce immediately noticed that his eldest was leaning more heavily on his crutches than usual. That could have been because he was still half-asleep, but something about the way his son looked made Bruce’s father/doctor instincts perk up.
“Bună dimineaţa,” Dick greeted with a tired smile as he took his seat. Immediately, he reached for the coffee.
“Perfect, now that everyone’s here, we can finally eat!” Jason announced triumphantly. Bruce didn’t miss the way Dick’s face tightened at his brother’s volume. But he knew Dick hated being drilled about his health in front of his siblings, so he told himself that unless things got worse, he would wait until after brunch to corner him.
The rest of the family fell into their usual chatter. They talked about everything, from Jason’s college classes to Cass’s upcoming dance recital to Tim’s current PC build. Even Damian discussed the new art project he was working on as part of his therapy.
But one of his children was being uncharacteristically quiet.
“How is work going, Dick?” Bruce asked. He wasn’t sure if Dick was getting a migraine, or if his back was hurting, or if maybe he was just in a bad mood. All were possible in the land of TBIs and spinal cord injuries.
His eldest shrugged as he picked around on his plate. He didn’t look like he’d been eating much. “Este bine.” {It’s fine.}
Bruce frowned. When Dick had said “good morning” in Romanian earlier, he’d brushed it off. His son always incorporated phrases from his native languages into his everyday life. But to continue to not speak in English… something was definitely off.
“Chum, that wasn’t English,” he said gently.
Dick furrowed his eyebrows. “So kames te phenes? Sigurno sas.” {What do you mean? Of course it was.}
Bruce wasn’t as proficient in Romany as he was Romanian, but he’d picked up enough from Dick over the years to be conversational. “No, Dragule, it wasn’t. Is your head bothering you?”
“Me se bine,” Dick huffed. But then, he started rubbing at his temples. Definitely a migraine, then. Which made sense. Language disturbances were often part of Dick’s aura. {I’m fine.}
“Jason, will you help your brother to the couch in the sitting room, please? I’m going to grab his meds, and then I’ll meet you there.”
Having dealt with plenty of Dick’s migraines in the past, Jason knew exactly what to do. He calmly put his arms under his brother’s armpits and lifted him to his feet. Dick’s knees immediately buckled underneath him, unable to support his own weight.
Without having to be asked, Tim jumped out of his seat and helped Jason keep Dick upright.
“Pot merge,” the man muttered, even though his eyes were squeezed shut. {I can walk.}
Jason didn’t speak Romany or Romanian, but he knew his brother well enough to guess what he was saying. “C’mon, Dickie. You know your legs don’t work whenever your brain decides to throw a tantrum. Let Timmy and me help.”
Dick muttered another protest but didn’t fight as his two brothers half-carried, half-dragged him out of the dining room, leaving his forearm crutches propped up against the table. As they were leaving, Bruce got up and made his way over to the medicine cabinet. He’d had it custom-built years ago, and it contained both general medical supplies as well as specific bins for each of his children. It even had a fridge for medications and ice packs. The cabinet had been a life-saver – it kept everything organized and quickly accessible, which was vital when raising medically complex children.
“What is wrong with Richard?” Damian demanded.
Bruce opened up the cabinet and started pulling out supplies: Zofran for nausea, a sumatriptan auto-injector for the migraine, a vial of Toradol with a syringe, and a cold, gel mask from the freezer. “Remember how Dick was hurt when he was a kid?”
“Of course. It’s the reason he uses crutches to walk.”
“Exactly. In the fall, Dick’s brain was also damaged. Sometimes, because of that, he gets very severe headaches, called migraines. And when his head is hurting, his brain will occasionally revert to his native languages, Romanian and Romany. He can understand English, it just becomes difficult for him to speak it.”
His youngest frowned. “I see. How do you treat these migraines?”
“Well, right now, sound and light are really hurtful for him, so that’s why I had Jason and Tim take him out of the room. I’m also going to give him some medicine that will help. He’ll probably be down the rest of the day, but he should be back to his normal self by tomorrow.”
Damian still didn’t look convinced.
“Dick will be okay,” Cass promised, putting her arm around her little brother’s shoulder. “He just needs to rest. In the meantime, let’s help Alfred clean up.”
Bruce signed a quick “thank you” to his daughter as he carried his supplies towards the sitting room. He’d have to remember to follow-up with Damian later, but for now, he needed to get Dick taken care of.
The room was dark. Tim had drawn all of the heavy, velvet curtains to prevent any light from coming in through the windows. Meanwhile, Jason had gotten Dick settled onto the couch. His eldest was curled up into himself, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Am medicamentul tău, Dragule,” he alerted softly, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. Tim and Jason took that as their cue to quietly creep out of the room. {I’ve got your medicine, honey.}
“Dukhal,” his eldest moaned. {It hurts.}
“Știu, fiule. O să fac să fie mai bine.” {I know, Son. I’m going to make it better.}
Bruce sat down on the edge of the couch and spread out his supplies on the coffee table. He picked up the sumatriptan first. After cleaning the back of Dick’s arm with an alcohol swab, he positioned the auto-injector against the skin.
“Doar o mică împunsătură aici,” he warned before pressing the button. There was an audible “click” as the needle engaged, delivering the medication into the subcutaneous tissue. Dick barely even flinched, the pain of the migraine far outweighing the injection. {Just a little poke, here.}
Next, he opened the blister pack containing an ODT of Zofran. He help it up to his son’s lips. “Pune asta sub limbă și lasă-l să se dizolve, Dick. Te va ajuta cu greața.” {Put this under your tongue and let it dissolve, Dick. It’ll help with your nausea.}
Without even opening his eyes, Dick parted his lips just enough for Bruce to push the tablet through.
Finally, it was time for the Toradol. He knew from experience that Dick couldn’t swallow whole pills during the peak of his migraines (at least, not without starting a vicious cycle of projectile vomiting that was nearly impossible to stop), so he always kept a few vials of injectable medication handy.
“O să-ți fac o injecție cu analgezic acum. O să simți cum îți împing puțin centura în jos,” Bruce explained once the needle was prepped and ready. {I’m going to give you a shot of pain medication now. You’ll feel me push your waistband down just a little bit.}
“Śukar.” {Okay.}
Luckily, with the way Dick was laying, Bruce had easy access to the ventrogluteal site. He pulled Dick’s sweatpants and briefs down just far enough to expose the meat of his hip before cleaning the site and inserting the needle into the muscle. Dick moaned a bit as Bruce pushed down on the plunger but remained still. When the syringe was empty, he removed the needle and gently massaged the site before fixing his son’s clothing back into place.
“Gata, Dragule,” he assured. “Vrei să-ți porți masca de frig cât timp te odihnești?” {All done, honey. Would you like your cold mask on while you rest?”
Dick nodded, so Bruce slipped the mask on over his face. Now that he’d done everything he medically could for his son, the doctor started to leave. Only, Dick weakly caught his father’s wrist before he could move.
“Beśel,” he begged softly. And dammit, his eldest may have been twenty-five years old, but he was still Bruce’s baby boy. There was no way he was going to deny him any meager comfort he could possibly provide. {Stay.}
Being as careful as possible, Bruce repositioned them so that Dick’s head was nestled in his lap. “Întotdeauna, fiule.” {Of course, Son.}
With his father holding him, Dick fell asleep within minutes.