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Dick huffed angrily. He’d barely managed to get his suit off by himself last night after Alfred patched up his broken arm. It now hung in a sling as Dick resisted the urge to smack the brush against his own head. His hair stuck out weirdly on the sides, and it was harder to tame since he had grown it out. Despite the higher maintenance, Dick liked having his hair different. It separated him from the role he’d outgrown as Batman’s partner.
His eyes looked tired in the mirror. His reflection carried such a deep, dark set of eye bags that he looked more like a raccoon than a man. He grit his teeth. Being back at the manor, even if it was only to be a consult on one of Batman’s cases, always managed to put him in a foul mood and resurface old, painful memories. Bruce was just such a—God, he could be so insufferable sometimes. It made Dick want to scream—which he often did, directly in Bruce’s big, obnoxious face.
Dick startles at a knock on the open door. Bruce stands there looking hesitant. The anger raging in Dick roils at this—begging to boil over and burn those in its vicinity. He’s preparing for a critique, some unsolicited advice that Dick’s anger will sharpen to a blade and throw back in Bruce’s face. Instead, Bruce’s words give him pause.
“What’s wrong?” Bruce’s eyebrows furrow into what Dick has begun to learn is not anger but concern. His lips are set in a frown.
Dick takes an even breath, fighting back the sudden welling of tears as his anger morphs into a painful, aching feeling in his chest. The fire in him dampens to an ember, and Dick is taken back to those nights as a young child grieving his parents in Bruce’s arms.
“I can’t—” Dick starts, choking back the way his voice threatens to waver, to be vulnerable. He sets the brush down on the counter, staring intently at the faucet handle. He refuses to look up. He doesn’t want to see how pathetic he looks or at Bruce’s soft expression lest he fully breaks down. He’s grown now, he knows. He wants to be better, to be beyond the hurt and the helplessness he felt in childhood. He doesn’t want to go back to being a little kid frozen in horror, sitting beside the fallen bodies of his parents.
Bruce takes a small step forward, still cautious. Dick can hear a gentle inhale behind him, the way Bruce is holding his breath. Dick reads the wariness
“I could…” Bruce trails off, unsure of himself. His hand hovers over Dick’s abandoned brush. Dick, despite himself, finds his eyes glancing up just briefly. He corrects his misread: it wasn’t quite wariness but instead…hopeful?
Dick nods, unable to force the words out, his throat tightening painfully. Bruce gently grabs hold of the brush and sweeps it through Dick’s overgrown, messy mullet, starting at the ends. He knows Bruce isn’t a huge fan of the mullet; it’s why Dick likes his haircut so much. He enjoys watching the way Bruce fumbles to be polite whenever Dick asks what he thinks of it. Dick takes a steadying breath, feeling the war inside him quieting down the more Bruce runs the brush through his hair. It snags occasionally, prompting Bruce to mutter a quiet apology. Dick doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either.
“How’s the arm?” Bruce asks after a long bout of silence.
Dick shrugs his good arm. “Still broken, but better than yesterday.”
Bruce simply hums, and Dick lets his shoulders relax slightly at the lack of nagging. He knows Bruce means well, but he’s not sure he could take it while still feeling so fragile.
Eventually, the brush is able to glide through his hair without snagging, and Dick wipes away the dried tears, feeling a little more himself.
“Thanks,” He murmurs. “Sorry, I was being so…” He waves his good hand around as if that explained it, but Bruce seems perplexed. Dick goes on, unsure of how to explain himself, “It was dumb. It’s just hair anyway. Sorry you had to step in.”
Dick cringes at how forced his own apology sounds, but he’s trying to be better at communicating. He doesn’t want every interaction with Bruce to end in a screaming match or one of them storming off—usually Dick. He’s tired of holding onto all this resentment, this frustration.
Bruce shakes his head. “It’s not stupid. I understand. The little things…they build up.”
Dick blinked. As good as he’d gotten at reading Bruce, he still surprised him sometimes. Bruce had his faults, and oftentimes they led to fights and disagreements. But sometimes—in rare moments, Dick reluctantly admitted—Bruce would have the perfect response. For all his many, many issues, Bruce could be shockingly attuned at times. This was one of these moments.
“Oh.” Dick shrugged again, trying to regain his bearings and brush off the small, vulnerable moment and resume a strong front. “Yeah, it can get like that for some people.”
“Maybe…” Bruce trailed off, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought. Dick quirked an eyebrow at him. Bruce set his hands in his pockets, nervous. A rare look on Batman, but it was slightly more common on Bruce. Even more so now that Dick assumed the role of Nightwing and their relationship was as rocky as ever. “I was trying to ask if perhaps—you can say no to this, obviously. Although I’m sure Alfred would be happy if you said yes—you could…stay. Just for a bit, until dinner maybe? If it gets too late to head back, you could always spend the night if you’d like…”
Dick blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Uh….” Dick sorted through his list of excuses. Titans’ emergency, patrol, Bludhaven emergency, dog sitting for a friend, long drive… He was reluctant to stay and potentially end their night on a sour note, but maybe, just maybe, things could turn out okay. Maybe for once they could coexist without old resentments souring the evening and making Dick feel like a rabid dog. “I…okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dick sat at the other end of the couch from Bruce. There weren’t a lot of activities they could do without exacerbating Dick’s injured arm. So, a movie it was. It seemed like a good choice to Dick: minimal conversation, coexisting in the same room together, and the movie would prevent any awkward, tense silences.
Aside from the occasional crunch of popcorn, it was quiet. The movie rolled into the credits. Dick scooted the pillow over into a more comfortable position. Over the course of the movie, he found himself slowly leaning down to rest on his side. Bruce’s arm sat across the back of the couch, not quite close enough to couch him, but not as far apart as they were at the start. Dick failed to bite back a yawn, stretching his legs out a bit. When he went to crack his neck, he caught Bruce’s eyes focused on him.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just…it’s been a while since I’ve seen you curled up like that. You’ve grown.”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you go through puberty, Bruce. I’ve been grown.” It comes out a bit more snarky and less playful than Dick intended. He internally cringes as Bruce’s expression falls into a frown. Oh boy, here we go again.
“That’s not…I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’ve changed.”
“It’s fine. Let’s just forget it.” Dick internally chastises himself for messing this up. Sometimes it felt like he couldn’t open his mouth without causing another rupture, another fight. he sets his head back down on the pillow, staring at the black TV screen.
“No, I’m…I’m proud of you.”
At this, Dick’s head whips back around painfully quickly. He wants to laugh. He wants to fall over, clutching his stomach, laughing at this statement. It was no secret Bruce wasn’t fond of Dick’s new life, his new identity. Now he was saying he was proud? Bruce must see it in his face because his expression falls. He looks resigned. It makes Dick want to sucker punch him.
“This…isn’t going very well. You’re mad at me.”
“Wow, what gave it away?” Dick says dryly. The anger washes over him, gilding his previous insecurities.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” Bruce quietly confesses. Dick wants to soften at the words, the openness in the confession. Instead, a new wave of anger pushes forward at the idea of fixing this for him. Why must Dick teach him how to respond? How to parent? Bruce should figure it out. He was the adult here. Although Dick supposed he was an adult now, too.
The anger beckons him forward. It begs him to snap his jaws, to bare his teeth in a cruel snarl, to draw blood. However, Dick has traveled down this path before. A thousand times. The screaming matches leave Dick exhausted. It ends with him driving home, replaying the spat in his head until he gets home, then he curls up on his bed, staring at the wall absently while tears slide down his cheeks. This time, the tiredness creeps up on him before he even gets to the car. He releases a weary sigh.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Bruce.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve been better to you.” Bruce picks at an invisible piece of lint on his pants. “I realize I…have issues. A lot of issues. I’m sorry I wasn’t the dad you deserved.”
A part of Dick is pained by this information. Another part of him wants to snap. He knows how Bruce gets; he’s familiar with his shame spirals. It clouds his perception, pulling Bruce to dive deeper into his work, to isolate himself from everyone.
“Stop,” Dick breathes. Bruce’s eyes snap up to his. “Don’t do that. Don’t go that far. I need…God, I hate it when you do this. This isn’t helping anyone. You feeling shitty about yourself doesn’t make this any better. You don’t get some prize for brooding the most.”
Bruce looks properly chastised. It reminds Dick of late nights when Alfred would chide him for staying up too late or forgoing food. Dick understands Alfred all the more now. If anything, Alfred went easy on him. Frustration bubbled at the reminder of Bruce practically withering away when too absorbed in a case. How dare he, Dick thought, how dare he let himself fall apart like this. He wants to scream. He restrained himself, just barely, but his tone was still frustrated when he next spoke.
“I’m tired of watching you tear yourself apart. I want…I’ve been trying to make this work, but you just—I don’t have the answer either, Bruce. I don’t…I don’t hate you. At least, not all of the time anyway. Don’t get me wrong, you are so incredibly difficult to put up with sometimes. You hurt me. I hurt you. But…”
Dick took a deep breath. He wished he had a blanket to curl around his shoulder with a comforting weight. He wanted to hide his face. Instead, he settled for averting his gaze slightly to the right of Bruce.
“I just…I want you. Here. In my life.” He swallows back the stab of emotions. He wanted to say “my dad” instead of you, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for that, was unsure how Bruce would feel, if it was too much. The confession pained him. It felt like stripping off his armor and praying Bruce wouldn’t stab him in the heart. He felt bare, naked.
Bruce stood up. Dick turned his gaze down to the floor. Bruce’s shoes approached the couch. Then, arms were wrapping around him. A sad noise, almost a whine, sounded in the back of Dick’s throat. The tears welling in his eyes finally spilled over, and Dick hid his face in Bruce’s shoulder.
It was quiet for a few moments. At last, Bruce spoke:
“I want to be that for you.” Bruce’s voice wavered. Dick tried to picture the tears he knew were in his eyes. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I want to be better for you, if you’ll let me try again.
Dick’s throat tightened with unshed tears and restrained sobs. He couldn’t speak, so he simply nodded. Bruce held him tighter, rocking them slightly.
This didn’t fix everything. There were still many problems to address. Things wouldn’t be perfect between them. But something had shifted. And it made Dick optimistic.
He decided to spend the night.
…
Barbara swung away from firefly’s flames, landing neatly on her high heels. Her nose wrinkled at the heavy smoked and burnt smell around her. Gosh, maybe Pixie Boots had the right idea with the shorts, Barbara felt like she was—Oh no. Burning. She was burning. Her fiery red hair was really living up to the fiery part right now. Frantically, she patted the ends of her hair, internally frowning at the singed ends. So much for getting a haircut just last week. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Problem for later.
Killer Moth struggled to fix one of his jammed gadgets. Barbara couldn’t remember what he called it. Moth gun? Fly swatter? Bug spray? No, that’s not right. Uh, what other stupid gimmicky names were there? Killer moth was fairly easy to take down on his own. Firefly, on the other hand, made things much more tricky.
“How would you like a taste of my cocoon gun?” Killer Moth cackled. Cocoon gun! Barbara snapped her fingers. That’s what it was called. She easily evaded, moving closer to render his gun useless. She tripped him, letting the gun spill out of his hands and shatter on the ground. “No! My cocoon gun! I just upgraded it. Do you know how expensive that was?”
Alright, next one. Barbara threw one end of her line to snag across the road. Predictably, Firefly stumbled over the line. There was her opening. She swung herself forward, heels first, directly into Firefly.
And, just her luck, she thinks bitterly as Batman swoops down. Wow, how perfect. Here comes Batman just in time to take the credit for her win. She sighs. Before Firefly can get back on his feet, Batman disarms him, keeping him pinned while tying his hands behind his back.
“I had it,” She says, annoyed. Batman’s cowl and white-out lenses slowly meet hers. Barbara stands her ground. Sure, being underestimated could be a great advantage, but it really got on her nerves, too.
“I know. We’re on the same team.” Batman stands, looming. It’s true, Barbara reminds herself, she swore an oath. She was part of the bat brigade now. “Check for any survivors.”
Eager to focus on something else, she searches the burning buildings for anyone left behind. She saves a little girl’s goldfish.
Swallowing her disappointment, she drives over the speed limit on the batcycle towards the batcave. She tries not to cringe at the similar naming systems between Batman and Killer Moth. Hopefully, a few rounds in a training simulator will make her feel better.
It doesn’t. Barbara still smells of smoke, and every swish of her hair reminds her of the impromptu haircut firefly gave her. With a frustrated huff, she exits the simulator. Batman sits in front of the computer. She ignores him.
She clicks her tongue as she runs her fingers over the burnt ends. Well, she always did want to try out a shorter haircut. What is she supposed to tell her hairdresser? Oops, how clumsy, I was trying to light a candle and accidentally set my hair on fire? No, might as well try her own hand at cutting hair. She snatches a pair of scissors near the medbay. She takes a deep breath—
“You burnt your hair.”
“Yup,” she says shortly. She should probably find a mirror beforehand, she thinks belatedly.
“Would you like help?” Well, it would be hard to cut the back, especially without a mirror.
“…Okay.”
Bruce moves to stand behind her, taking the scissors from her hand. “Alfred would probably be better at this if you’d rather wait for him. He’s out at the moment, but should be back soon?”
“Jeeves is your personal barber, too? You just have him do everything here, huh?” That earns her an amused huff. “It’s fine. Go ahead. So long as it’s not as short as Boy Wonder’s, it’s okay.”
“I don’t think we’ll need to take that much off.” Barbara tries not to make her relieved sigh too obvious. With a thunk, Batman’s gauntlets and cowl were set down on the table beside her. His hand carefully sweeps through her hair and holds the singed ends. The scissors make a distinct chopping sound as her red hair falls around her. What should she tell her dad? Just felt like trying something different? Needed a change? She’d figure it out. She always did.
Batman moves around her, holding out the ends of her freshly-cut her hair to ensure it’s even. If Batman was anything, it was precise. He had great attention to detail in all he did, including this apparently. The sheer oddness of the situation—Batman cutting her hair—made her want to fall over laughing.
Batman, at last, took a step back and nodded. She ran her fingers through her hair. It was closer to her shoulders now rather than spilling down her back.
“Thanks.”
He turns, cape sweeping behind him. He pauses. Almost hesitant, a bit awkward, he catches her gaze over his shoulder. “Barbara?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll make sure you get credit for your work today. In the past, I tried to avoid publicity because I hoped you would change your mind about the whole vigilante thing. I see now that you’re committed to the mission.” He nodded to himself, seemingly relieved at having gotten the words out. “And one more thing: good work out there today. You should be proud.”
“I do okay,” she says with a shrug, daring Batman to challenge her.
“You still have a ways to go.” There it is. Classic Batman. Finally, back to normal without the weird, sudden compliments. That was the Batman she knew.
…
Jason struggled against the tears welling in his eyes. He let his head smack against the shower wall, water rinsing the conditioner from his tangled hair. Hoping the water would muffle the noise, he let a small sob rip its way out of his throat. Jason’s days on the street didn’t allow him to accumulate many personal items, and he was well aware of the state Batman found him in when Jason tried to snatch his tires. Since his recent welcome into the manor, he gained access to well-fitting clothes, a door with a lock, food, etc. Unfortunately, the matting building up on the back of his head refused to be detangled. Jason considered chopping it off with a pair of scissors. The steam building up in the shower, in addition to Jason’s shallow breaths, made him light-headed. With a defeated sigh, he shut off the water. He quickly patted his hair dry with a towel and tugged the hood of his jacket over his head. So far, Bruce and Alfred seemingly had yet to notice—although Alfred frequently chided him for wearing a hat or his hood up inside the house.
Jason shut the bathroom door a bit harder than intended. He winced at the noise. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he scurried off to his room.
“Jason?”
He froze. His shoulders rose to his ears. Jason kept his face downturned.
“I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch? Maybe watch a movie? I got off work early today if you have anything in mind.”
“Um, okay.” Jason turned to face him, shrugging his shoulders in response. He scuffed his shoes against the floor.
“Sandwiches okay? Maybe some popcorn or chips too?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” When he realized Bruce was waiting for him to make a choice, he hurriedly said, “Uh, chips are good. If that’s okay.”
Jason plopped himself down on the couch, waiting for Bruce to return with the food. He hoped his face was less flushed from the awkward conversation by the time the man returned. He wasn’t sure how to connect with the guy. They didn’t exactly have a lot in common. His eyes scanned over the DVDs, scoffing when he saw Annie. How on the nose, Jason thought dryly.
Bruce returned with two plates and set them on the table, and smiled at Jason. He did a once-over, gaze landing on Jason’s jacket. “Cold?”
“I’m okay.”
Bruce frowned but didn’t press the issue further. Instead, he settled back onto the couch, draping his arm over the back. Jason sat on the other side, far out of reach. With a click of the remote, the TV turned on. “Any preference?”
“Nah, I’m good with whatever,” Jason answered mildly. Jason pulled the plate into his lap, taking a bite of the sandwich. His mind strayed back to the growing knot on the back of his head. He’d have to figure out a solution fast, as the problem was only getting worse. Eventually, someone would see it, and Jason would greatly prefer to avoid that. He pulled his hood down further. A weird haircut would be preferable to whatever mess currently sat in his hair, right? But how was he supposed to get hold of the scissors? There was a pair in the kitchen, but the space between the kitchen and the bathroom was far enough that he would surely get caught before he made it. Maybe he could hide it underneath his jacket? Even worse, what possible excuse could he have for sneaking the scissors up to his room? Jason fiddled with the zipper on his jacket.
Jason blinked, finishing the last bite of his sandwich as he realized they were well into a movie Jason wasn’t paying attention to. He was too lost in thought. Hopefully, Bruce wouldn’t ask him too many questions about the movie. He munched on the chips as quietly as he could, trying not to drown out the sound of the movie. Sour cream and onion, he noted.
With the food gone, Jason had nothing to do with his hands. He was back to anxious thoughts and wrapping the hoodie strings tightly around his chip-dusted fingers. Bruce glanced over at him.
“Everything okay?”
Jason nodded before he could think better of it. He paused. Maybe… Bruce never hurt him. Sure, sometimes his attempts to help were misguided and led to trouble, but his intentions were good. Even after Jason stole his tires, Bruce never hurt him. So maybe…
Before he could chicken out, he forced the words out. “Hey Bruce? Could you…”
He swallowed, internally screaming at himself to finish the sentence, but he floundered when he found Bruce’s attention on him. “Um, it’s just…It’s kind of dumb, but…Can I borrow a pair of scissors?”
Jason’s hand reached up to tug on the end of his hood. Bruce tilted his head. “You want a haircut? I can schedule you an appointment somewhere unless you’d rather have it cut sooner?”
“Something like that. I’d rather just do it myself,” he tugged anxiously on the zipper of his jacket.
“You sure? It would probably turn out better at a barbershop. I could try if you’d like, but I’m not very good.”
“It’s just…” Jason wasn’t sure how to explain. Would Bruce be disappointed that he let it get this bad? He cringed at the thought, courage dimming and giving way to a rush of anxiety. “I didn’t mean to…I swear I tried to fix it!”
Bruce waited patiently, clearly trying to puzzle together what Jason was talking about. “Did you try to cut your own hair? Is that why you’ve been covering it up? It’s okay, it’s just hair. It can be fixed.”
Jason shook his head. Shame flooding through him. Maybe he really should’ve just tried to cut it himself. Even if it was bad, at least it was less embarrassing to admit than the reality of the situation. It was too late now, though. He opened his mouth to speak, but turned his head away when his voice cracked. He couldn’t say it.
He pulled his hood down. He tensed, waiting for a gasp of shock or disgust. But it didn’t come.
Bruce made a sound noise in the back of his throat. Jason turned his head down, unable to meet his gaze. “Can I get a closer look, Jason?”
Stiffly, Jason nodded. When he didn’t move, Bruce slowly slid closer. He leaned to the side and, telegraphing his movements, reached a hand up. So light he barely felt the touch, Bruce swept his hair to the side to get a better look at the matted clump digging into the nape of Jason’s neck.
“I think I can fix it. I might have to cut a little bit off, if that’s okay?”
“Okay…”
Bruce returned with a brush, a detangling spray, and a pair of scissors. He sat to the side of Jason. It was definitely an uncomfortable angle for him to reach around Jason, but he appreciated that Bruce refrained from sitting directly behind him. Bruce carefully held the roots of his hair, so the tugs of the brush were less painful. Occasionally, Jason winced but was met with a swift, murmured apology. His hair was knotted so tightly that Bruce was forced to use the scissors to help loosen it, but Jason supposed it was better than his idea to chop off the entire chunk of hair. Eventually, the brush ran through his hair without snagging, and Jason’s shoulders sagged in relief.
Bruce leaned back, giving him space and a soft smile. Jason ran his fingers through his hair, relishing in the way it no longer snagged. So quiet Bruce could barely hear it, Jason spoke: “Thank you.”
…
Tim stood in front of the mirror with a frown. He tried to fix the cowlick in his hair, to sweep it back into something resembling presentable. His tie was uncomfortably tight around his neck, and his suit itched along his over-sensitive skin. Tim tugged at his collar, trying to get some more air. He was supposed to head over to the gala with Bruce, but his hair fought to make them late. Tim smoothed back his hair once again, rushing to Bruce’s room to grab his cufflinks. The box was set out on top of the dresser. He popped open the box to see the familiar W on the cufflinks. A family heirloom. A gift from Bruce. Tim’s heart calmed slightly at the sight of them. Putting the cufflinks on, Tim caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His cowlick was back. Tim sighed.
“Need help?” Bruce asked, emerging from his walk-in closet.
“Please.” With a hand on Tim’s back, he guided him over to the mirror. He gently fixed Tim’s unruly hair, a small smile on his face. “Sorry about this.”
“Nonsense,” Bruce soothed. “I’ve done this for all my boys.”
Tim felt the blood rush to his face, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. Bruce readjusted his tie where Tim had accidentally messed it up earlier.
“All done,” he patted Tim’s back.
“Thanks, Bruce.”
…
Stephanie fluffed her hair. It had grown frizzy from patrol and fought against her attempts to tame it. God, sometimes she loathed having curly hair. She sighed as she looked at the time. At this hour, even if she washed and styled her hair—which would take forever and cost far more energy than she currently possessed—her hair would take ages to dry. Maybe she should just leave a spare hair dryer and diffuser in the cave. Honestly, she’d rather annoy Bruce with the loud whirl of the hairdryer than wake up her mother in the middle of the night. Bruce probably deserved it. He could be a real ass sometimes.
“Stephanie? You’re still here?” Bruce observed.
“Yup, sorry to disappoint. Still here.” She tugged on her hair, frustratedly, pulling out the hair tie harshly. She cringed as some of her hair was ripped out along with the hair tie. Whoops.
“You’re here more than my actual children.”
Stephanie snorted. “Bit of a self-report there, huh?”
“What are you trying to do?” Bruce’s gaze drifted down to the poor, abused hair tie hanging from Steph’s hand. She shrugged.
“Welcome to the horrors of long hair,” she sighed. “Bad hair day.”
Bruce reached forward before pausing. “May I?”
Confused but ultimately intrigued, Stephanie gave him the okay. He separated her hair into three sections, crossing them over each other—Oh, he was braiding her hair. Unable to stop herself, she said incredulously, “When did you learn to braid hair?”
His movements paused briefly before resuming. “…My mother liked to braid her hair before bed. Sometimes she’d let me do it.”
Stephanie softened at the rare show of vulnerability. Feeling the need to reciprocate the gesture, Stephanie offered, “My mother taught me too. She promised to teach me how to French braid, but she’s been busy.”
“If you’re asking me to French braid, you’ll be better off asking someone else. This is the only braid I know how to do.”
Steph huffed. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll teach you how after I figure it out. Then again, it might be fun knowing there’s something I can do that you can’t.”
“We’ll see about that.”
…
A steady, staccato beat rang in the cave as Cassandra’s fists landed on the punching bag. A few strands of hair fell from her ponytail. Wiping the sweat off her brow, she tucked the loose strands behind her ear. The strands spitefully untucked themselves. Cass huffed.
“Come here.” Batman beckoned her forward with a wave of his hand. His body language was gentle and relaxed. It was a rare sight, but not uncommon after patrol wrapped up.
Bruce’s hands guided her hair back, fingers tickling the back of her neck. The calloused pads of his fingertips scratched nicely against her scalp, and she tilted her head back into the touch. There were few people Cass trusted to stand behind her. Batman was one of the few.
David Cain never hugged her or brushed her hair back. Instead, she was met with hands folded into fists, followed by pain shooting up her body. Her tiny hands were made to cradle sharp, dangerous weapons. She held blades until they molded into her hand, became an extension of her, until she herself was a weapon. Now, she learned she was something more than that.
Her hair hung tightly in a ponytail. The same stubborn hairs fought free, landing in her eyes. Bruce smoothed back the unruly strands from her forehead, holding them down with a hair clip. He repeated the gesture on the other side. His hand brushed down to her jaw, thumb sweeping across her cheek fondly. He checked his work, nodding to himself after a moment.
“There.” His hand fell, and Cass immediately missed the warmth. He stepped back. She ran her hand along her hair, nodding back at him.
“Thanks,” Cassandra smiled to herself; she was getting better at speaking. Bruce seemed to notice, too. His eyes crinkled.
…
Damian sucked in a sickly breath through his mouth. His forehead was hot with fever and slick with sweat. Damian wiped the sleep from his eyes with a clumsy hand. He felt gross. Tissues littered the floor, his clothes were damp with sweat, and yesterday’s clothes sat in a pile on the floor. Damian wheezed once again, slowly turning his head towards the rising sun peeking through the curtains. He felt more lethargic at the thought of fending off his illness for yet another day. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to overtake him once again.
It didn’t.
Damian spent what felt like hours restlessly tossing and turning. He fought the urge to bang his head against the bedframe. He wearily lifted his head at the knock on the door. His throat was sore, and his voice sounded scratchy when he spoke: “Come in.”
Bruce gently eased the door open, one arm carrying a tray of soup, water, and crackers. Damian groggily sat up, layering pillows behind him. The tray was set atop Damian’s desk, and Bruce gingerly sat beside his son. Damian shifted his weight to lean against him. “Hungry?”
“Not especially.” Damian propped his head up against his father’s shoulder. Bruce hummed sympathetically. When Damian didn’t reach for the food, Bruce placed the tray on his lap, lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth. Damian took a slow sip, too tired to fight the embarrassment that would have bubbled up had he been feeling well. The soup soothed his throat. He pursed his lips, focusing on what little of the soup he could taste.
“Is this from a can?” Bruce looked sheepish at the accusation.
“…yes,” He confirmed.
“It’s salty.” Damian’s face scrunched.
Bruce huffed. “Don’t waste your energy complaining about soup you can barely taste.” He knocked his knuckles against Damian’s forehead in a playful admonishment. Damian plucked a cracker off the tray. Bruce dragged a hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Damian leaned more heavily into his side. “Feeling any better?”
Damian grunted in response, already feeling exhausted once more. Bruce’s hand fell to his shoulder; in its place, Bruce rested his chin atop Damian’s head. “Hmm, maybe a change of clothes and bedding might help. A shower if you’re up for it? We can sit on the couch while your room is being cleaned up.”
Damian grunted again, dreading the idea of moving. Bruce patted his shoulder consolingly. He set the tray aside, nudging Damian. Damian let himself fall forward, slumping into Bruce’s chest. He kept his eyes shut, determined to let sleep wash over him.
“The steam will help,” Bruce insisted, sounding amused at his son’s antics. He simply scooped Damian up, standing with ease. Damian buried his face against his neck, blocking out the light. Bruce rocked him gently, walking in circles as the water heated up. Steam slowly settled in the room. Damian found he could breathe a little easier. Bruce let the water run along his fingertips, testing the temperature. When he deemed it good enough, he settled Damian’s back against the outside of the tub, letting his head settle against a towel on the edge.
Bruce shifted the showerhead to wet Damian’s hair, running a hand through the greasy, sweat-soaked strands. He rubbed shampoo through Damian’s hair—twice—and Damian secretly savored the moment, trying to keep his facial expression neutral. Bruce cupped the top of Damian’s head, keeping the water away from his eyes as he rinsed Damian’s hair. Damian’s lip twitched upward. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the grin off his face.
Bruce scrunched conditioner into Damian’s hair, then ran a brush through it. Damian can’t remember the last time someone had brushed his hair for him or even cared for him so tenderly. It was nice not to push through the pain for once. Damian could be more than his accomplishments and receive love merely for existing. Love was simply given freely in his father’s home, not earned.
The conditioner was rinsed from his hair, and Bruce once again shielded his face from the water. Bruce scrunched the excess water out of hair with a towel, settling it around Damian’s shoulders. “Do you want to sit in the steam for a bit longer? I can go change your bedding and get the couch set up with blankets.”
Damian took a deep breath, excited to be able to breathe through his nose once again. He nodded. The door shut with a click. Damian changed into the fresh clothes sitting beside the sink. He brushed his teeth, happy to be rid of the salty aftertaste of canned soup. Bruce was right, he did feel better.
He padded out into the hallway, peeking his head into the living room. Bruce fluffed a pillow. The curtains were drawn, and the sun warmed the floorboards. Damian stood in front of the window, basking in the warmth. His fever confined him to bed for the past couple of days, and Damian found himself missing the outdoors. He missed feeling the chilly winds in his hair as we grappled across buildings, his cape fluttering behind him. He missed the excessive chattering of his siblings on the comms. He missed the rush of adrenaline and the sweep of his sword in battle.
“Father,” he found himself asking. “Can we sit outside instead?” Bruce paused his movements, glancing up at the window.
“It’s a nice day out. If you’re feeling up for it, then yes.” He tossed the blanket across the back of the couch. “If you change your mind for any reason, let me know, and we can head back in.”
The sun beamed down nicely along Damian’s back, and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. Bruce settled down on the porch swing. He fitted a pillow behind his back, opening his arms for Damian. He shuffled forward, allowing Bruce to tug him into his lap. Bruce kicked out one leg to touch the ground, gently swaying the swing. Bruce’s hand swept back his damp hair, palm briefly resting on his forehead.
“Your fever has gone down.” His thumb brushed along Damian’s temple. Damian hummed sleepily, letting his head lull against Bruce’s collarbone. A quick kiss was placed on the top of his head. With the warmth of the sun and the grounding weight of Bruce’s arms around him, Damian was lulled into a deep sleep.
…
Duke sighed as he wiped the sweat off his brow. He froze. Oh no. He looked down at the rag and the noticeably less smudged areas of ketchup and mustard. Great, just great, he had smeared the remnants of his fight with Condiment King all over his face. He heard a snort from behind him, and blood rushed to his face, no doubt turning it crimson. Perfect, he thought facetiously, now his face matched the ketchup. With a glare, his head snapped towards the source of the noise: Bruce.
“Long day?” Bruce asked.
“You have no idea.”
Bruce strode forward, picking up a clean towel. He poured a bit of water on it and swiped it across Duke’s face. Duke made a face at the cold feeling of the towel. Bruce seemed amused by it all. Duke felt like a little kid. “Some of it got into your hair.”
Bruce brushed the towel gently along his hairline, stepping back for a moment, eyes searching for any spots he missed. He patted Duke’s shoulder, careful to avoid the condiments still dripping off his suit. “Go get changed. I can clean up your suit for you.”
“Say less.” Duke headed off, eager to hop into a hot shower and comfy clothes. He planned to take a long nap after this.