Chapter Text
Bruce, like most days, was rudely awakened at the ass-crack of dawn.
This time — again, like most days — it was by his kids screaming bloody murder for him to get up.
He could tell by their chorus of verbal abuse that he was to get his "pasty little bat-heinie" downstairs immediately so he could start his day serving them without any further delay.
He let out a long troubled sigh and muttered a prayer under his breath to his personal God, Gerard Way, that he wasn't going to get in too much trouble.
"I'm coming!" He yelled in his signature, delicate bat-voice, that was still a little hoarse from just waking up.
He sighed once again as he drags himself out of his plush double king-sized canopy bed, and slipped on his fuzzy, onyx black bat-slippers and trudged his way to his closet to pick out his outfit for the day.
He always believed that the most important part of the day was picking out a killer outfit so you could start your day with a bat-bang.
He quickly undresses out of his raven-black satin sleeping robe in favour of putting one of his most iconic sets of clothing: it consisted of his favourite luxurious, Vampire-black, thousand thread-count turtleneck, a pair of Louis Vuitton ripped jeans (that cost him a measly 5 million dollars) that had a matching Rolex watch that was set with rare black diamonds and a chain choker to accessorize with, but the most iconic part of the set was The Cowl; it often struck fear into the hearts of all the criminals of Gotham but more importantly it was a window to Bruce's soul (Much like how Evanescence's album "Fallen" was), it gave him the chance to be who he truly was and whoever he needed to be.
He sighed and looked in the mirror before he tucked a strand of his charcoal black hair behind his ear before putting on the cowl.
Just as he did so the bat-kids once again screamed for him to hurry the fuck up already before they had to come up there themselves and drag him by his cowl's stupid, pointy ears.
Bruce had no choice but to quickly tug on his favourite pair of converse and run down the manor stairs.
As he hurried down to start on his day's duties he got a little retrospective on who he truly was... He guessed he wasn't like all the other 45 year old men his age; he liked sleeping in, The band Paramore, and Hot-Topic — but the singular most glaring difference between him and all the other guys his age was that he was The Batman.
That was what made it the hardest for him to connect with all the other people his age, as a sad result he was ostracised and condemned by his peers and he even experienced a fair share of bullying; but there was one specific traumatising incident sat squarely in Bruce's mind.
[Earlier that week. At the Justice League Tower; after another "Tower of Babel" type of incident.]
"Can you please manage your contingency plans better? This is the third time this month that a villain has hacked into the Bat-computer files and used them against us in an attempt to take over the world."
"OH MY GOD, WILL YOU STOP ATTACKING ME???? I HAVEN'T EVEN DONE ANYTHING WRONG!!!"
Batman tried to punctuate his innocence by upending the justice league table, but couldn't as it was bolted to the floor. Diana and Clark traded a concerned sidelong glance as the hall of justice fell almost entirely silent apart from Bruce's grunts of effort.
After realising there was no use in such an extravagant display of his (very justified) rage, he settled with shoving Hal Jordan out of his seat.
He made sure they all saw him flipping them off as he sashayed towards the Zeta tubes — he didn't need their negativity anyway.
But by all means Bruce considered himself to be a completely and entirely plain, middle aged man (barring the entire masked vigilante thing) as he stood at a modest 6ft 5 inches, didn't have any wrinkles or grey hair, never experienced erectile dysfunction (despite the fact that he had been kicked in the balls by each member of his rogue gallery, including the C-listers like Kite-man and Condiment King, at least three times over in his entire time as Batman) and had cum made up of biodegradable glitter and pure liquid love.
As soon as he got downstairs and made his way to the kitchen for breakfast the onslaught of orders began.
"Pour my milk!" Jason scowled menacingly. His legs kicked up on the table, boots stained with mud and grit from doing who knows what and from where…
Bruce had daintily shuffled his way to the fridge for the milk before another demand was issued.
"Yeah, and get me a beer while you're at it, you bat-bitch." This time it was Dick, he had a cruel smirk on his face.
Bruce paled a little, if Dick was here Damian would be nearby too… instead he quickly swallows down whatever fear that clogged his throat and started on serving his sons.
He was lucky the girls weren't around, Stephanie was outright condescending to him, while Cass silently demeaned his every move, but together the two of them ran the house with an iron fist.
Tim threw a half-empty bottle of vodka on the ground when he noticed Bruce hesitating.
"Stop dawdling, can't you do anything right? this is why we're fucking selling you!"
Bruce whips head around in abject horror… "Selling"?? What did he mean by "selling"???
"What?" Bruce whispered in a demure bat-voice, not wanting to awake the alpha male rage that his son was already presenting.
"We're selling you." Tim sneers, his lips curling into a sinister smile.
"W-WHAT?!" Bruce can't help himself from yelling in shock.
"B- b-"
"buh- buh- buh- what, bat-boner?" Jason snarled.
"You- you c- c- can't sell me, I'm-"
"What? The Batman?"
"That doesn't mean jackshit to us." Tim cackled maniacally pulling out another bottle of liquor (this time it was lemon flavoured gin) and waved it around with his musings.
"Yeah, just because you're The Batman doesn't mean we weren't going to list your ass on E-bay for 69 cents and a picture of pocket lint." Dick chimes in from behind a bottle of beer.
Tim continues after uncorking the bottle.
"We were just waiting for the girls to give us the go ahead."
"They said if you fucked up again, you're donezo." Jason pipes up.
"You're out-!" Tim hollered out in amusement, snickering wickedly.
"Bye-bye!" Jason adds, they start to build a rhythm and play off each other chanting statements to make it obvious that whether Bruce likes it or not he's being put out.
"See ya never, buddy!"
"Good riddance, Old-timer!"
"Not to mention we never wanted you in the first place, Loser." Dick held an L made from his thumb and index finger over his forehead.
Bruce bit down on his bottom lip and tried to hold back a sob. He couldn't cry here in front of the kids, he didn't need to give them more ammunition and another reason to sell him off, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop his cerulean orbs from glistening with tears.
Before Bruce's tears could be shed the door to the study slams open, the air grows chilled, and all heads turn to towards the noise.
A fog drifts from the room like a plague that has been set upon the world and a small statured figure stands in the doorway menacingly.
"Cease your bitch crying, Father." Damian's voice is shrewd and unflinchingly cold.
"Eek!" Bruce yelps in fear, forgetting himself and who stands before him.
Damian, thankfully, forgoes his typical show of terror in favour of addressing the issue at hand.
"You are to be sold at dawn. Ready yourself, faggot." His tone stern and unmoving, there was to be no arguing about it further. His command was absolute and nothing could be said to sway him, and Batman knew it.
Soon twilight was upon them and dawn would be quick to follow and shine through the grand manor windows to seal Bruce's fate.
The air was stale, and pregnant with dread, Bruce's blood thrummed in anticipation. He stood between Dick and Jason, Tim stood at the door of the room, waiting for Damian's signal that the buyer had finally arrived.
But the manor was silent.
So silent you could hear a church mouse fart.
The crunch of the gravel could be heard from the room they were tucked away in and as his buyer stepped into the tiled floor of the manor foyer Bruce felt his mind drift as though he was in a dream. This was really happening.
A hushed conversation could be heard from beyond the door, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to listen and before he knew it they were slowly pushing him toward his buyer.
For a second Bruce couldn’t believe his eyes.
He was being bought by
…
…
…
Ghost-Maker?!?!?!!!?!
For a moment all Bruce could do was stare.
Minhkhoa was his evil ex-lover and he was an absolute heartthrob to the men, and women, and men again ('cause he's pretty gay like that) throughout the countries he operated in… But Bruce couldn't care less about him now.
He no longer saw the appeal in the way he held himself in his white wimpy suit, all suave and self-assured as though the moon would have to crash into the earth first before even a lock of hair would move out of place.
The way that his suit was ironed perfectly to lay crisply against his rippling muscles that probably flexed alluringly every time he moved.
But it wasn't like he was interested in him or anything like that.
Minhkhoa took a short step forward, not regarding Bruce just as yet, instead he hands a fat envelope of cash and a Manila file that held the 12" x 18" photo of lint into Damian's hands.
"Your mother tried raising the bid to 69 dollars and 69 cents, but ultimately I won with my 69 cents, picture of lint, and a wooden button; It's in the Manila file." Minhkhoa huffs out in airy sounding amusement when he sees the youngest of the Wayne boys go through the envelope brimming with cash.
He takes a cursory glance at Batman; making note of his tensed stance before approaching him. He grabbed Bruce's chin and tilted his head this and that way as though he was appraising his purchase — Bruce supposed that was exactly what he was doing — After Khoa is satisfied, he nods in the direction of the bat-kids and with that Bruce was sent to gather his things to set off to his new life.
He had to tearfully grab his 12 Nirvana T-shirts, 11 turtlenecks, 10 bat-branded booty short, 9 khaki slacks, 8 Rolex watches, 7 Sanrio themed batarangs, 6 (7), 5 bat-jockstraps, 4 bat-back-braces, 3 of pairs of underwear, 2 cat girl maid outfits (with a bat twist), and his emotional support toupee and stuff them in a navy blue Bat-backpack with a Cinnamoroll key-chain.
In the doorway of the manor just as he was about to leave with all of his belongings, he casts one final look across the home that he had inhabited all these years.
How strange life was, it was just yesterday that he adopted Dick (and the other ones) and now he was leaving, never to return. He knew in his heart of hearts that his kids had a good reason to do this, because this wasn't them… but he had no choice but to go now.
He mournfully whispers under his breath one last goodbye despite his kids now having their back turned to him, revelling in the fat envelope of cash and Manila file that held a picture of pocket lint (insert very poetic description of pocket lint here) and a wooden button.
"Farewell, Old Chums."