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Twenty-four years, two months and eighteen days.
If you don't count poisoning by arsenic, intoxication by Ivy's pollen, the depression after Jason's death, and that one alien parasite that made him go into a coma for almost a month, that was how long it had been since the last time Bruce ever actually got sick.
He was fifteen years old when he had the flu for about a week. Alfred nursed him back to health with soups, medication and affectionate care until the boy was back on his feet and, since then, Bruce had never been bedridden by a virus again.
No one really understood how. Maybe it was his so-called willpower that refused to let any disease affect his body and strengthened his leukocytes up the highest notch. Or perhaps, he did in fact get sick, as frequently as any other human, but detested so much the idea of staying out of the field for too long that he just took as much medication and cough syrups as possible and powered through, not letting anyone know.
Which was why, three days ago, when Alfred called the children saying their father was sick, informing them he would not indulge into dinners or lunches and would spend his time locked on his bedroom until he could be found in a better state, all of them understood it as a code for "self-brooding" and respected his supposed wish to be alone.
As a result, the only ones by Bruce's side while ill were Alfred and Clark.
For Alfred, taking care of Bruce was a routine. In the late mornings, he would come to his bedroom, draw the curtains, help him go to the bathroom to brush his tee, then sit him back on the bed to try to serve him breakfast. After, he’d let Bruce sleep through the day, only waking him up for lunch. He'd spend the rest of the afternoon giving Bruce his meds, keeping him hydrated and helping him arrive at the toilet fast enough to not throw up on the carpet.
Dinner would happen at around six pm and go by as just another dish Bruce wouldn’t be able to stomach. All those barely digested meals getting flushed down made Alfred consider borrowing the I.V therapy equipment from the Batcave, just to make sure the man wouldn’t pass out from malnourishment above all.
During the rest of the evening, he would visit him every twenty minutes to see if he was okay, sometimes even sitting by his bedside for hours at a time, just observing him.
As much as Alfred hated to see Bruce sick, Bruce couldn’t help but notice a familiar look on the butler’s face, one that he hadn’t seen in decades. He wondered if when Alfred stared at Bruce for too long a bit of that fifteen-year-old boy looked back at him. He could only imagine, to know that he would have to directly ask the man, so maybe it wasn’t a mystery worth uncovering.
Clark, as the amazing boyfriend he was, came by and kept him company for as long as he could. He, still, couldn't be as present because of the limitations of a nine-to-five. Not mentioning the times that Superman had to be on the other side of the world.
However, even briefly, having Clark around was a breath of fresh air. With the time he had, Clark read The Alchemist to Bruce from front to back, helped him get out of bed and sit himself the balcony, cuddled with him even while drenched in sweat and told him he was beautiful even when he couldn't be more sure he looked disgusting. Clark was the type of man that made you proud of yourself for managing to get him into your life.
And Bruce wished with all his strength that Clark could be with him right now.
It was night. The clock by Bruce's bedside table had the numbers 01:29 glowing on it. While Clark was away in China helping with a small flood near a village, he was in bed. Not a rare sight these days, with his back hurting from laying down all day and a very warm and uncomfortable puddle of sweat underneath him, staining the sheets. The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas, a book he had requested hours earlier to be brought to him, had been abandoned on the edge of the mattress after the mental exhaustion of countless attempts to read the same page, now forgotten.
He couldn't sleep, but the disorienting brain fog his fever had created also rendered him incapable of doing anything else; his body's needs were the only aspect of himself that were clear to Bruce. His stomach was growling, he was hungry and, to make his condition even more humiliating, not for any food.
Ben & Jerry's Bohemian Raspberry had been the only food he could stomach ever since he got sick. Anything else, even ice creams in different flavours or different brands, would go straight to the toilet five minutes after eating.
There were three tubs of it in his freezer and he just couldn't stop thinking about them.
Bruce was able to stand from his bed with shallow breaths and breaks to rest for a few seconds, then reached for his robe on the coat hanger and tied it around himself. Slowly and with a lot of care in each step, he left his bedroom.
The corridor, like the rest of the property, was engulfed in the night's darkness. He approached every lamp on the hallways throughout his way to the Grand Stairs, turning them on; Alfred would go through the roof if he saw him, not only out of his room, but wandering around the manor unable to see an inch in front of him.
The Grand Stairs led to the Great Hall on the first floor and had twenty-eight steps; similar to getting out of bed, Bruce had to stand still every six steps to make sure he wouldn't faint if he went down another one, while supporting almost his entire weight on the banisters. The repeating reminders of his own frailty in the past few days made Bruce partially ashamed of being seen in his state. The same man who once fought battles against intergalactic demigods was now panting from walking down a stairway to his kitchen. Who would know his ego could be so quickly humbled? Guy Gardner would be laughing if he caught a glimpse of him like this. But Guy Gardner would also laugh at any situation in which Bruce was miserable, so the idea wasn't much of an offence.
Only once he was more than halfway down, Bruce noticed he had forgotten to turn on the lights of the chandelier. The mishap meant that the remaining ten steps ahead of him were covered by gloom and, because of that, extremely difficult to discern from each other. He could turn the light on, of course, but the switches were placed on the top and bottom of the staircase. Turning on the chandelier would mean making his way to the top (eighteen more steps) then going down (another twenty-eight). And walking a total of sixty-four steps was an activity that Bruce knew his body could not partake in no matter how strong-willed and stubborn he could be.
Thus, his grip on the bannisters grew a thousandfold as he tiptoed his journey to the first floor. A tad bit of guilt crept up inside of him while he moved in the dark and thought again about Alfred. The feeling was quickly shut down by his remaining pride.
He knew his house like the back of his hand; he had spent his forty years of life in it and had run up and down the same steps as a boy. Sick or not, the steps hadn't changed their position. It would be unreasonable for Alfred to worry so much about him.
However, what had changed since the times Bruce was a child was the fact he no longer lived alone with his only companion being the well organised butler. And no amount of childhood recollection would have predicted the presence of Duke's boots on the bottom of the stairway.
The abandoned shoes blocked his right foot mid-stride and were kicked meters away. Bruce's entire body stumbled forward, unable to regain balance as he usually would could have. His hold on one of the balusters thankfully stopped him from falling face first on the hard floor, but a loud painful groan still escaped his lips as his foot arched against its joint.
Bruce sat on the last step with his hands around his ankle while he gradually stopped hissing in pain and muttering curses. It wasn't that severe of a sprain, the ligament didn't tear, probably just got stretched. He had, of course, gone through worse, yet that didn't mean the pain wasn't agonising. He waited impatiently for many minutes for the throbbing feeling to cease or at least lessen enough for him to limp his way to the kitchen.
Asking for help or calling for someone wasn't an option.
He felt humiliated by the solemn idea of someone seeing him as beaten up as he looked now, even if said person was Alfred, who had seen him in many more degrading situations. Maybe it was a good thing his children didn't come to spend time with him, nobody should have seen him like this. His fever made him stupid, daft, emotional. To the point where he had to fight tears from the pain brought by his ankle. It was shameful how a little virus could turn him to a foolish man who wanted to cry when hurt.
Putting all his strength on his strong foot, Bruce stood up by sheer force of indignation. He was forty-two for crying out loud! Being injured never made him fight down tears; it made him devise plans to ensure he would know how to act the next time someone tried to attack him by the same means. There was nothing strategic in getting teary.
He used his surroundings to help him distribute his weight when stepping with the right foot, supporting himself on side tables, door handles and any possible surface until the kitchen door finally came into his field of vision. The sight of the interior greeted Bruce with the same victorious feeling as a finish line.
After crossing the threshold, he allowed himself to collapse on one the chairs at the small table used almost exclusively for Alfred's tea time, then spent the next three minutes catching his breath while wiping cold sweat off his face with the sleeves of his pyjama shirt.
When he felt capable to half-stand again, Bruce opened the silverware drawer. Snatching a table spoon, he limped his way to the fridge with a grin of childlike wonder.
Because, however much he would never admit it out loud, Bohemian Raspberry was something he could count on. Bohemian Raspberry would never let him down; in Bohemian Raspberry he could trust his life and nutrition and well-being and soul and all his money after his death.
Bruce hadn't been able to eat properly all day and those three glamorous tubs that Alfred had bought just for him had been waiting patiently in the refrigerator to be ravished.
He opened the freezer with the elation of a wife opening the front door to see her husband for the first time since he was sent to war. Except, there was no husband, there was no ice cream.
The spoon fell from Bruce's hand. The three tubs were still there, but almost completely empty, with only enough for the person who ate it not to have to throw the tubs away. Still in denial, he felt the need to confirm and check inside every package, their weight feather light. It was really gone, his Bohemian Raspberry was gone and the culprit even kept the containers to leave a message.
After shock subdued, outrage ran in Bruce's veins. In a cartoonish world with fantastic logic, he would be red and with steam leaving his ears. It was just offensive. This was his Manor, his refrigerator with his ice cream in it. Everything here was either in his name or bought with money that was under his name. And someone just dared to clutch away the only consolation that he had in his deplorable condition, his Bohemian Raspberry. Tears spiced with anger began to blur his vision, but he quickly dried them before they left his eyes.
He must stop. Okay, what happened happened. There was nothing he could do about that. Getting mad wouldn't help anything, good decisions are rarely made in moments of anger. What he needed to do was to think of what to do next.
With his ankle stinging a little less than minutes before, he hobbled to the other side of the kitchen, opened a cabinet next to the industrial sink and grabbed a small ceramic bowl.
Maybe the little rascal being lazy was a good thing, it meant there was still a bit of ice cream in every tub. Yes, it was a very small quantity but if he combined it all together there might be enough for him to not pass out in the next hours.
Opening every Ben & Jerry's and emptying them, Bruce smiled proudly as the small bowl was almost full at the end. He showered his Bohemian Raspberry with sprinkles he had fetched on the sweets shelf, bat-shaped and black and yellow coloured, because he deserved it. And decided it was better for his back to eat his bowl on one of the couches rather than the hard chair of Alfred's tea table.
Tim Drake was an unlucky son of a bitch.
The Wayne Manor, originally built by railroad financier Jerome K. Van Derm in 1855, had fifty-nine rooms, including but not limited to seventeen bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, two dining rooms, a ballroom, a gallery, and a library that could make universities jealous. Yet, out of the three en-suite bedrooms it had, all of them had already been occupied by the time Tim entered the family.
Jason's bedroom was kept the same after his death, preserved and well cared for, an altar for a dead child. Even after his debut as Red Hood and eventual "come back" to the family, the room remained untouched. Jason didn't dare to confront the image of the boy he once was, while Alfred kept it neat and organised, if one day he changed his mind.
Dick's room, similar to Jason's, was also unoccupied. He had left for Blüdhaven, but all his stuff stayed in the manor. When asked by Tim years later, he affirmed a desire for a fresh start, to leave in Gotham what belongs to Gotham. Yet Tim wasn't allowed to move into it.
That narrowed it down to Bruce's room, which was out of range, because, well, Bruce was there.
Three en-suites: one for a dead boy, one for an adult that had no desire to come back home, and another for a man who barely spent time in it. What a great use of space!
Of course, eventually, Tim conformed to the miserable concept of being the only person in the family without a bathroom attached to your bedroom. Mainly because he had better shit to think about, but partially because, with the years going by, more and more people moved into the Manor, meaning he wasn't the only one without en-suite privileges, and seeing Damian throwing a tantrum about it also helped him laugh it off as a childish problem.
Nonetheless, in moments like this, the grudge always resurfaced. Seventeen bedrooms, eleven bathrooms, two dining rooms, a ballroom, a gallery, a fucking library, and Tim still had to walk three hallways from his bedroom every time he had to take a piss in the middle of the night. By the time he came back to his bed, he was already fully awake!
With a groan, an annoyed Tim stepped out of his bedroom, yawning and then rubbing his eyes. The contrast of the dark room to the extremely bright corridor was unpleasant. Why would every single one of the hallway's lights be on? Had the person forgotten them like this or was about to come back to switch them off?
Either way, it was better to not take risks. If Alfred woke up the next morning with all these lamps still on, the entire family would hear it to no end.
With a two-minute walk, he made it to the toilet while hitting one by one the switches of all the lamps attached on the walls and resting on side tables. Then, after using the bathroom and washing his hands, Tim closed the door behind him.
As expected, after his little trip in the dead of the night, part of his drowsiness was gone. Maybe if he hurried back to bed fast enough, he would still be able to go back to sleep without taking a melatonin pill, Tim thought. But, soon after, a growl coming from his stomach made the idea of a late-night snack pop up in his mind. He considered both ideas for a few seconds. Should he prioritize his sleep or grab a bite while at it?
"Ah, fuck it," Tim muttered as he strolled his way towards the Great Stairs, he could always take a couple pills later or a power nap in the next afternoon.
Even in the darkness and with his eyes still half closed, he moved down the steps slowly and with precision. While walking through one of the corridors attached to the Great Hall, he noticed a dim glow coming from cracks of the almost closed kitchen door. Forget Alfred, Tim himself was going to yell at the person who kept forgetting to turn the lights off; this was getting annoying.
Gripping the handle and pushing the door open, Tim knew something was wrong. He had hit something, something big and heavy, and then a loud thump followed by the shattering of china was heard. He stuck his head through the door's gap, only to find his father on the floor next to pieces of ceramic and a bit of spilled ice cream on his pants while the rest stained the carpet.
"Holy shit, Bruce, are you okay?" Tim exclaimed at the sight, opening the door only enough for him to pass through.
Bruce, who seemed still very startled, looked at the boy, then at his ice cream for a couple of seconds, then at the boy again with glossy eyes and the expression of a kicked puppy. "I'm okay," he tried to assure his son, his voice frail.
"Oh, God, did I hurt you?" Tim crouched next to Bruce, taking in the man.
Bruce shrank onto himself under his stare, fuelling the foolish idea that maybe if he made himself small enough, Tim wouldn't see him anymore. "No, I'm fine, I'm… sorry," he whispered, turning his red face away and burying it onto his own shoulder.
The man never apologized if not with a really good reason. It widened Tim's eyes to witness the stoic figure his father always was so diminished, as if apologetic for his own presence. Even under the effects of fear gas, he had never seen him so troubled. Could that be it? Some variation of the fear gas? But how could he have come in contact with it while locked up in his bedroom?
"You're sorry for what, B?" the teenager asked.
"Nothing… it's nothing," his muffled words answered before a hiccup made itself heard. "Just— just don't look at me, alright?" he urged with a pleading tone.
Tim blinked twice, then averted his gaze. "Okay, I won't," he guaranteed. Because what else was he supposed to do? Better thought, what was he supposed to do next? Bruce was weeping. God, Bruce was weeping in front of him. How was anyone supposed to react to that?
Adults getting emotional were always a weird thing to witness. Now, said adult being Bruce? It wasn't like he never saw him cry before; he had seen him shed a tear a few times throughout the years, but this was different: Bruce was straight up trying not to sob in front of him, and, this time, Tim couldn't just leave the room to give him privacy as he always was instructed to do.
Should he call Alfred? Dick? Clark? The entire Justice League? The Batman was on the kitchen floor close to mental breakdown next to a puddle of melting ice cream. What would they do to help him? Was there a contingency plan for something like this?
A sniff followed by a question pulled Tim out of his train of thoughts. "I wouldn't blame you for being ashamed."
The youngster hesitated, but turned his head slightly in the voice's direction, respecting only partially its past request. "What?"
"I'm— I must be looking so stupid right now. I bet you never thought you would see me reduced to… this," he started, each word filled with self-deprecation. "I'm so sorry, Tim, I can't imagine what this view is doing to your image of me."
Tim opened his mouth, not yet sure of what words would come out and if they would make the situation better or worse. Yes, it was shocking to behold such an abnormal scene and he didn't really know what to do with it, but would telling that to an already panicking man be the right choice? Bruce spoke before he had to make the decision.
"I mean, can you really say you're gonna think of me the same after this?" He raised his head, finally showing his son the full extent of his wet complexion, a mix of tears and cold sweat staining his face.
Cold sweat.
"B, can I touch your face, real quick?"
The man's eyes on the boy saddened by the lack of an answer, still, he complied with a nod.
With the same caution as one would have approaching a frightened animal, Tim slowly came closer to Bruce and placed the back of his hand on his forehead. And, Jesus Christ, his skin was burning hot, Bruce was 40°C, at best. How hadn't he fainted yet? How did he come all the way from his bedroom to the kitchen without falling? Had he really been sick this whole time?
"Shit, I gotta get Alfred," the boy exclaimed to himself, starting to stand up, but a hand on his wrist stopped him midway. Bruce might be ill, but his strength definitely remained intact.
"No, please don't," Bruce begged? "Tim, please, I-I don't want anyone to see me."
"Bruce, you're sick," Tim insisted, trying to reason with him, (if that was even possible at this point). "You could pass out any second, maybe even have a seizure! You know for a fact I cannot let that happen."
"I'll just take acetaminophen and go to bed. There's no need for so much worry or to wake Alfred. Go back to sleep, Tim. I'll take care of myself." He let go of his grip on Tim. His eyes supplicating, please go, let me be alone.
The teenager bit his bottom lip.
The Batcave database specified that Bruce was exactly 210 lbs. Even though Tim had, in the past, carried him for considerable distances while he was either injured, unconscious or both, he had never done it against Bruce's will. It was hard to think of climbing the Great Stairs with his father fighting him off as a possibility. The idea of drugging him went through Tim's mind, it would make the journey upstairs easier, but Bruce was currently on high alerts; it was surprising he even let Tim touch him, imagine getting as close while with a syringe in hand.
"Jesus Christ, B, what will I do with you?"
"What is wrong with father?"
A small but firm voice made both their heads turn. Damian stood in the corridor, in long blue pyjama shirt and trousers, opening the kitchen door. He was able to disguise his face into the stoic expression he always bore, but his eyes did little to hide his immediate worry, open and fixated on the figure of his father.
The man recoiled once again. Not another son, not Damian, the only one who still held some admiration for him.
"There's nothing wrong with Bruce," Tim tried to convince the boy. Unsuccessfully.
Their eyes met. Damian stared at him with offence. Drake was speaking to him as if he was a child. Deplorable. If there was something causing distress to his father, then it was his job as his son to know everything about it and find a way to fix it.
"Don't lie to me, Drake," Damian commanded, but the bravado on his tone was quick to dissipate after he noticed his father flinching ever so slightly at the volume of his voice, something that would take only trained eyes to notice. The boy stood still for seconds, unsure of how to proceed. His gaze found Tim once again, studying him; uncertainty also marked the teenager's face, though to a lesser degree. "Just— Tell me, at least, what can I do for him."
Tim pressed his lips together, taking in glimpses of his teary father on the corner of his vision. There was no way he could help Bruce and respect his wishes at the same time. Maybe when well-rested and stable he would understand. While that did not happen, the only right answer was two words:
"Get Alfred."
Damian nodded at the order. He moved swiftly away from the kitchen, leaving as quickly as he arrived, his steps adept to be agile yet as silent as possible.
"No, no, no. What is wrong with you?" Bruce snapped at Tim with a deep frown and choked voice from crying.
"Bruce, listen—" Tim started with a calming inflection, only to be immediately interrupted by his father.
"You should have left me alone!" Bruce insisted, gripping on the counter near him to support his own weight. "But no, you just had to wake up the entire house." He set his left foot on the solid floor and lifted himself from the ground.
Tim tried to not let himself be offended. This wasn't really him, he knew that. "Bruce, be careful please," he advised him, keeping his distance but hopefully close enough to be there if anything happened.
"Now, everyone will be able to see exactly how pathetic and pitiful I am, because of you," the man kept blabbering with panted words, standing up was more than enough to get him gasping. And not only that, within moments, his head started feeling light, the objects around him seemed like they were moving, and Tim's image began to blur and darken.
Bruce's body inclined itself forward, he heard a very muffled "Are you okay?" coming in his direction and took a step in front of him to steady himself. Unfortunately for Bruce, he used his right, still partially sprained foot to do so, which led to a complete loss of balance.
The last thing he remembered was his vision turning black and thumps for steps approaching to hold him before he hit the ground.
Everything in the Master Bedroom was indistinct shapes and shadows after Bruce first opened his eyes. His head hurt, his ankle was still sore and his memories all blurry; his own body never felt heavier. And to make everything better, a ray of sunshine was hitting him directly on the face.
He raised a hand in the air to cover the light coming from one of the windows, feeling a light pinch on the back of his hand as he did so. An I.V needle was attached to one of his metacarpal veins and fixed to his hand with tape. Alfred followed through with his idea, it seemed.
In a matter of seconds, the curtains were draped over the window, and, next to them, stood the figure of Clark Kent, the ever loving boyfriend. He came closer to Bruce in the bed, helping him sit with a firm hand on his back. "Easy there, B. How are we feeling?" he asked, sitting next to him and removing a few stray hairs from Bruce's face.
"Like some alien parasite sucked all the energy from my body." He groaned, messaging his temples.
"You really pushed yourself yesterday night, didn't you? Gave us all quite a scare," Clark said softly, setting his hand over Bruce's shoulder with an equally soft touch.
"Yesterday night?" the billionaire repeated after him just before his eyes widened, his memories cleared out and his gaze finally found focus on Clark. "Oh God, Tim." The grip he had on the sheets by his side tightened.
"He knows you didn't mean any of it."
"Where is he?" Bruce asked in haste. If it was still morning, he might be able to catch Tim before he went to Uni.
"He is fine, Bruce. I promise he understands whatever happened between the two of you," his boyfriend guaranteed, closing even more the gap between the two of them, the hand on Bruce's shoulder moving to cup his cheek.
"God, what have I done?" Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
Damn him. Him and his stupid necessity of being seen as a high figure at all moments. Tim had seen him in his lowest and most miserable moments, yet he had been too proud to allow him or anyone to simply look at him. Shame, guilt and regret flooded through Bruce's veins. The stupid fever might have made him a more sensitive man than he usually was but, overall, it did nothing more than show Bruce's true nature. He was an insecure man and had taken it all out on his own son. Last night had been a disaster and he was the only one to blame. Jesus Christ, his eyes were starting to well up again.
"Bruce…" Clark tried to comfort him, brushing off the single tear that had fallen, with his thumb.
"Who knows about what happened last night?"
Clark took a second before answering. "Me, Alfred, Damian and Tim. Alfred called for me after you passed out. The others now know that you were actually sick and might suspect something happened yesterday, but nothing more than that."
"They didn't know before?"
"They thought 'sick' was a code for you wanting to be alone," Clark explained. That family needed to start getting into the habit of holding conversations like normal people.
"Of course," Bruce scoffed.
"But… is that what you wanted, Bruce?" Clark stared into Bruce's eyes, hoping that even if his lips lied, those beautiful greyish sapphires he fell in love with would at least be honest enough to give a hint of the truth. "Did you— do you want to be alone?"
Alone. Every time Clark wasn't near and Alfred wasn't taking care of him, Bruce was alone. It had been three days of this. His mind wasn't clear enough for him to think rationally about work or the cases he had waiting. That meant he had to spend his time looking at the ceiling with his thoughts. A living nightmare.
The highest point on his days was that one time when Tim and Jason were fighting in the corridor near his bedroom. It was for a stupid reason, as always, but Bruce couldn't help but smile at them. He chuckled at every childish comeback they threw at each other. A part of him thought of inviting them over, but a more prideful part remembered him of how ridiculous it would sound like.
But now let ridiculous be damned. Alone was something Bruce never wished to be. He felt weak, vulnerable and disabled. Alfred's presence was more than comforting and Clark was a beacon of light in his life, but what Bruce wanted the most to play chess with Duke, listen to Stephanie and Cass yapping about the newest episode of The Real Housewives of Gotham, watch Damian draw, laugh with Barbara about whatever story with Batman Jim had told to her that week, talk to Dick about his life in Blüdhaven, hear what Tim had to say about a case of his; even Jason barging in, swearing at Bruce, stealing a card from his wallet and then leaving would be better than being by himself most of the time. His pride was already stepped on by his family multiple times a day, and they never started seeing him any differently. Why did he start caring so much? They loved him, didn't they?
"I don't want to be alone, Clark" Bruce stated, his voice firm yet vulnerable, cupping Clark's hand on his face with his own. "Last night, I don't know what got to me. I mean, I do know, but I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I want you and my children, Alfred, everyone by my side, no matter how foolish I look, I won't stop you from helping me if that is what you want. I love all of you." He promised, staring right back into Clark's eyes. He then leaned forward, gently setting their lips together. They moved in a gentle, smooth manner, fuelled by a vow. Clark's free arm wrapped itself around Bruce's middle, careful to not put strength on his hold considering his still fragile condition.
When they finally set apart, foreheads resting on each other, sharing the same breath by proximity, Clark stole one more kiss from his boyfriend, smiling into the peck. "Your children are a bit worried. If you don't mind, they have been wanting to see you."
When the sun was beginning to set, hours later, Bruce felt a kind of warmth that no amount of time under the at daylight or blankets stacked on top of him could ever compare.
The living room TV was moved to be on top of Bruce's fireplace, and even with a dozen cushions and blankets thrown all over his bedroom floor, it seemed everyone had a particular affection for Bruce's bed.
He rested on the centre, a few pillows on his back helping him to sit straight. Tim was by his right side, Damian on his left. He had both arms draped around his sons. Over his lap, Cass' legs were lazily laid as she and Steph cuddled together under the covers on the middle of the king size mattress. Clark was nearby on an arm chair, holding his own personal popcorn bucket, because he was the only freak in the house who liked his popcorn with a little bit of lemon and soy sauce. Jason had originally sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, but gave up the stoic pose half-way through the movie and laid on his back, practically on top of the two girlfriends just to annoy them. Dick and Duke were the only ones on the floor, more because of being the last ones to arrive than it being an actual preference. The two boys sat resting their backs on the footboard while having their heads constantly kicked and thrown popcorn at for "being in front of the TV", until Alfred eventually scolded the perpetrators who giggled shamelessly.
It was still a bit awkward for Bruce, true. He had mumbled apologies on Tim and Damian's hairs in every opportunity he saw, but the boys kept responding there was no need for it and that they were happy in simply seeing their father well again. He hoped it was true, yet he also kept planning ways to compensate and properly apologize for everything they witnessed, especially Tim.
He'd look into himself deep inside and fix whatever needed to be fixed to make sure he would never treat any of his children the way he did ever again. It could take time, maybe even years, but he would dismantle and put himself together again piece by piece if necessary. Not any length was too far to cross for his family, no sea to vast to swim.
It was because of moments like this, with everyone he loved in a single room, that he left his home every night, to make sure every citizen of his city could also have the opportunity to come back to their reason to live.