Chapter Text
"Honestly," Bruce huffs, "I thought you all knew."
"How would we know without you telling us, Bruce? It's been over a decade. You didn't think it would be useful??"
"I thought it was one of those things most people just automatically knew, but I didn't. Every kid I grew up knew before I did."
Pause. What?
"You're telling me everyone knew Brucie 'Prince of Gotham' Wayne was autistic?"
"I wasn't Brucie back then," Bruce said flatly. "I was just a kid. And yes, everyone knew, before I did actually. Though, with how often they said it to my face, I should have figured it out sooner."
"...Called you autistic? They called you autistic to your- Bruce, did no one do anything??" Dick asked. He was very aware of the kind of bullying a newly-orphaned kid might receive, but it had never been anything like that.
"It was the 80s, they used the more outdated term. And they were right, so what was there to report?" Bruce shrugged. "I think everyone assumed I got hit in the head real hard during my travels, and it fixed me." Bruce made to push past his kids, but they refused to move.
"Bruce. You can't still... you know there's nothing to fix, right?" Tim asked hesitantly. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that his dad was a vulnerable kid once too.
Bruce turned to his son and gave a wry smile. "Of course I know that now." He'd learned to control his nervous rocking on his heels; he kept his hands and body still as he talked; he studied up on social cues and body language like he did economics or history.
He wasn't lying; he knew there was nothing to fix because there was nothing left to fix. What was left of him was too broken to even try, and it would have to remain one of his many failures.
This time, as Bruce moved again, he was let through to his bedroom.
Let's hope they don't find out about my time in Arkham, Bruce thought mildly.