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It figured that his boys--all highly-skilled, capable vigilantes--could defeat villains by themselves, but all got taken out at once by a virus. Bruce suppressed a sigh as he paused against the doorframe to the living room, gazing at the tangle of sleeping bodies across the area. All of them had had the chills, and had dragged themselves out of bed almost at the same time out towards the fireplace. Bruce and Alfred had given up on trying to get them to move, and had instead rounded up blankets and forced some soup and tea and medicine into all of them before letting them sleep. Now, the room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, the raspy breathing of all four boys, and the occasional snore from Titus and Alfred (the cat.)
Bruce took a quiet step forward, oddly reluctant to wake them despite the fact that he knew he was silent. Then again, all of them knew what to listen for, were used to being snuck up on. And not necessarily in a good way.
He needn't have worried. He made it behind the couch without one of them stirring. They were really tapped out.
He rested a hand along the back of the couch. Tim and Damian were both fast asleep against the leather, curled far closer than they ever would be if they were awake. It looked like they'd originally been sitting next to each other but had somehow tipped over and wound up with Damian curled on top of Tim, his cheek resting on Tim's shoulder. Bruce reached down and carefully tugged the blanket down a bit so that it wasn't covering Damian's face as much, stroked his thumb across Damian's chin before pulling back. His son's normally olive skin tone looked greyish and washed out, but looked healthy in comparison to Tim's paper-white complexion. So far, Tim'd been holding his own--though he was clearly sicker than any of the others--but Bruce was still ready to take him into the ER at a moment's notice if he got any worse. His third son's eyes were tightly closed, the skin surrounding them darkened from exhaustion, and his rattling breaths were loud enough for Bruce to hear them over the fire crackling.
Bruce frowned, concerned. Now that he was here, he saw Tim's tight expression and the tension in his body curled on the couch. He worried that maybe Damian's weight was hurting him or making it too hard for him to breathe. He carefully reached down, slid a hand beneath Damian's side and started to shift him away.
Tim rolled onto his side--Bruce froze, standing stock-still--and flailed an arm to wrap around Damian, eyes still closed. He twisted onto his back and pulled Damian in so that his younger brother's small head was tucked beneath his chin. Damian made a soft sound in his sleep but leaned against Tim and drifted off again. Tim shifted some more until his arm was in a semi-comfortable position, and quieted.
Bruce stood, shell-shocked. He knew that recently Tim and Damian had been getting along better, but this...
...How had he missed this?
He suddenly thought back to Damian's funeral. He'd been so wrapped up in himself that he had barely registered anyone else's presence, mind swimming with possibilities, with Jason, with how wrong this was. With the knowledge that this wasn't inescapable, he could do something about it, fix it this time. But now he vaguely recalled seeing Tim off with Alfred, jaw clenched and tears streaking down his cheeks. And he knew Tim. There was no way he didn't blame himself, even if there was nothing he could have done. He had been conscious, and trapped, less than a hundred feet from Damian and his killer. And in his third son's mind, that was enough to make Damian's death his fault. Bruce knew that if he had been in Tim's position, he would have thought the same.
(He'd blamed himself anyway, but he was the one who really was to blame, so it didn't matter.)
Tim had never really hated Damian. Well, he may very well have resented him, despised him even--not that he was unjustified in doing so--but again, Bruce knew Tim. And Tim would never wish death on Damian, at the very least because he was a kid. In fact, Tim would likely hate himself even more for the fact that he had disliked Damian, solely because he was dead.
That was just the way Tim was. He was always so kind. And self-aware. When he realized his mistakes, he tried hard to fix the damage he'd done.
And now, as Bruce looked down at his two youngest sons, he couldn't help a sad smile. They only realized how much they cared after they lost each other. A trait he wished he hadn't managed to pass on, even through adoption.
He shook his head and turned around. Jason was sprawled out on the floor, his arm thrown out across the carpet, fingertips almost touching the foot of the coffee table. He was covered loosely with a warm, soft, plaid flannel blanket. His hair was sticking up in wild spikes, his freckles were standing out from how pale his face was, and his mouth was open as he wheezed in his sleep. Bruce hadn't seen him this peaceful and content-looking in years. And it would just figure, he thought wryly, that Jason would be so comfortable on the floor and not in his bed or on one of the couches like a sane person.
But that thought brought dark thoughts--of Jason left alone as a baby to sleep on the floor, of Jason asleep in an orphanage, curled in a box or behind a trash bin on the street. And it didn't escape Bruce's notice that when he'd first adopted Jason, the boy had slept curled in a tight ball. Now, he slept sprawled out as much as possible, limbs thrown everywhere.
In his mind's eye, Bruce saw bloody fingers, the nails shredded, heard terrified screams and pleas, and he swallowed hard and blinked burning eyes. When he could see his second son through the angry tears again, he grabbed a pillow from the couch and slid his hand beneath Jason's head, gently lifting it just enough to slide the pillow underneath. Jason grumbled softly in his sleep, his nose scrunching up as he scrubbed his hand across his face clumsily. Bruce gently ran his knuckles against Jason's cheek, and the boy slowly quieted, his face returning to its peaceful expression.
Straightening slowly, Bruce glanced at Dick. His eldest son was curled in an armchair, his knees tucked beneath his chin. He was far too big to fit in the chair now, but it was his favorite place to sleep when he'd first come to live at the Manor.
He'd been so tiny then, Bruce thought, studying his son's features more closely than he normally did, taking in all the changes. The square jaw, that had always been handsome and winning. The full lips, which smiled easily and spoke both kindness and criticism where either were needed. The nose, which had somehow stayed straight despite all the fights he'd gotten in, without the protection of a helmet. The thick black lashes, the laughing bright blue eyes beneath. The thick dark hair, that was currently mussed and sweat-soaked, long bangs flopping over Dick's eyes.
Bruce swallowed hard, stared at the worn-out rug his parents had bought on their honeymoon in Turkey. He should have been happy right now; his boys were all safe, and alive, and together under his roof. And he was--his heart felt ready to burst from joy and relief. But there was also longing, and sorrow. And guilt.
Because they were all so big now, so old. Even Damian--his baby, his own child, who reminded him of his mother every time he blinked Wayne eyes, arched an al Ghul brow. The other three were not his by blood but were no less precious, beloved to him. And he was so proud, of every single one of them. Of the men they were growing into. Of the boys they had been, and in some ways still were. Of the children they'd been, unaware of all the sufferings they'd face, but ready and willing anyway. The smiles, the loyalty, the unwavering belief in him.
They saved him. Every single one of them, and he would never, ever be able to repay any of them the way they deserved.
So he did the best he could. He pulled the fallen blanket back up, tucked it around Dick's shoulders and bent to press a kiss to his forehead. The young man stirred, blinking hazily, his lip quirking into a faint smile when he saw Bruce. "Hey, B." He croaked.
"Hey, chum." Bruce replied, brushing the long bangs back. Dick gave him a sleepy smile and let his head loll to the side, closing his eyes again.
"You're such a damn sap, old man," a hoarse voice said behind him, and Bruce glanced back at Jason--half his black-and-white hair sticking straight up and the other half plastered to his face--only slightly disguising the sweet, if quite sleepy smile he had on his face.
Bruce shrugged, the warmth in his chest at Jason's happiness too much to bother hiding. "I don't deny it," he said, lowly and warmly. He crossed the room and carefully crouched down, tucking the blanket more tightly around Jason and stroking his son's cheek comfortingly. Jason leaned his face, rough with stubble, into the touch, giving a contented raspy hum.
"I love you, Jason." Bruce murmured, only for the boy's ears.
"Love 'ya too, Dad." Jason croaked back, just as soft, smiling up at him, and Bruce blinked back tears as he stroked his son's head one last time before straightening and going to the couch. He carefully raised Tim and Damian until there was just enough room beneath them that he could slide under them. He laid both of them down across the couch so that their heads were in his lap. Neither of them woke, but both of them wriggled closer as soon as he stopped moving them. He stroked their hair as their breathing slowly calmed.
He glanced up at the picture of him and his parents on the mantelpiece. He remembered staring at it once, when their loss was still a fresh wound beneath his ribs. Anger was the only thing he'd felt. Like he'd been cheated, like life had stolen his joy forever.
He ran his fingertips lightly across Damian's sweaty hair, fiddling with it, like he'd used to do with his mother's when she'd let him. He glanced back up at the photo and smiled, both so grateful to have this, these boys, a family, and yet sad that his parents would never see it.
Then again, maybe they could. You never knew.
He met his mother's laughing eyes and his father's warm ones in the photo. "Thanks for looking out for me," he whispered softly, looking down at Damian's thick black lashes and chubby cheeks once more, at the pile of warm, sleeping, blessedly alive children around him. His children. Every last one.
For once, he didn't feel guilt when he saw his parents' smiling faces. Now, he felt peace.