Chapter Text
Social events were never Bruce's favourite type of occasion, especially when donning his vigilante identity. They itched under his skin, the expectation to present himself in a way that others preferred, the need to cherry-pick his words in a uniform that was supposed to protect, not pander. But he was obliged to be here; otherwise, Alfred, Clark, and maybe even Selina would harass him with their unnecessary displays of disappointment. And he could not stand those displays.
The night had begun just as Bruce suspected it would. In the Watchtower’s main lounge, a place with a high metal ceiling, chairs that supported even the supernaturally tall members of the League’s backs and soft carpets that sank under his boots as Bruce made his way to the only seat left on the dining table. Cumin and grease filled the air not long after, the caterers Oliver hired only for tonight serving pots and plates without a second look as heroes spoke of their lives.
They ate, sipped and cheered loud enough that Bruce clenched his jaw. As expected, the tables were eventually left bare as servers cleared it with a few helping hands, everyone headed over to a more casual area opposite the table with bottles in hand and entertainment was acquired in the form of a deck of cards, some heroes tipsy on human alcohol while others, namely Diana, Arthur, Clark and J’onn, preferred to indulge in Diana’s native brew. Then there was Bruce, a man who didn't get involved with either the alcohol or the card game, resigned to simply watching them hang around on parallel couches and lean over coffee tables from a lone armchair nearby, silently waiting for the time his colleagues would inevitably leave to get some rest with a drying mouth.
Even after thirty-four years of life, Bruce himself had never truly developed a liking for drinking. When he was much younger and hurting from the way high society treated him, he had entertained it, but once his mission was determined…the monks didn't take kindly to alcoholism. They clearly stated that if he didn't cleanse his body, he wouldn’t be able to reach his goals, and thus, he stopped drinking, and Bruce never regretted that decision once. Nor did he regret teaching Dick teetotalism, even if he had no idea whether his estranged teenager was adhering to it anymore.
While it was healthier to live the way Bruce did, to resist hedonism in a life so tempting, and even if he had to occasionally pretend otherwise for the press and the public, he was not a lightweight. Back in the times when he hadn't thought so deeply about his well-being, Bruce had built a firm tolerance. It was an ability that was only made more robust through his training to go undercover at various settings where being drunk and dishevelled was necessary to fit in.
However, despite his vast experience, Bruce had no desire to drink or be around drinkers if he could help it. Especially not powerful heroes who could be dangerous without inhibitions. Yet, as the night went on, with him sitting at the edge of their circle, he found himself right where he had been avoiding, in a place Bruce did not want to be in but he could at least predict.
Even when an hour and forty-six minutes since his arrival the general mood of this social event shifted. When the next round of blackjack between Clark, Barry, Oliver and Dinah ended, their tipsiness evolved into something more…inebriated. When there was a shift which clearly intrigued J'onn and pleased Hal as he turned their previously inane conversation to something more personal.
“What about your family, Supes?” Hal nudged Clark, seeming incredibly sober when next to the Kryptonian, who was currently intoxicated on the same glowing golden alcohol Diana was accidentally spilling over the table between them as she chugged it down. “How’re they doing?”
“They're doing fine, I mean, I don' know. Should I talk about Ma or Pa or...La?”
Barry perked up, leg vibrating faster than the human eye could see, “La?”
“Lois,” Clark burped, ignored by Arthur, who was insisting with a poorly kept straight face that he wasn’t going to throw up when Diana teased him and his throat constricted. Bruce sighed, then got up to get something. He wasn’t surprised; most of them, especially Clark, weren’t used to being intoxicated and didn’t know what to do with themselves.
Oliver barked a child-like laugh. Something a baby would giggle when it desperately wanted approval. “You call her La?”
“No, I just thought it rhymed,” Clark grinned, wide and dopey.
“It does kind of rhyme,” Dinah sang, a modest wine glass in hand. “Ma, Pa, La~”
“Itdoes,” Barry blurted.
That is a splendid song, J’onn said to their minds without asking. Barry was the only one who jumped, but then resumed his bouncing soon after. It was a moment of weakness, and after knowing the Martian for ten years, even Bruce could allow it as he placed the travel sick bag in Arthur’s hand.
“I don’t need it,” the king grumbled. Bruce didn’t bother with a response as he stood behind them.
“Anyway, so…oh yeah!” Clark answered. “They're fine.”
“All of ‘em?” Hal asked.
“I guess, yeah. I mean, Ma has been recently telling me she'd feel better if I had a proper sidekick like half of you do, but I don' want one. I feel like it takes too much work.”
Hal leaned back in his seat and whined. “Saaame here. Damn.”
“It’s quite the deal,” Clark agreed, tidying up the cards and putting them away so they wouldn’t get wet by the glowing drink. “I'm nowhere near ready to teach anybody anything.”
“It'snotthatdifficult,” Barry promised with an encouraging smile. “You just teachthemwhatyouknow. As long as they're old enough, they'llfiguretherest out themselves.”
Arthur nodded, pointedly not touching the vomit bag. “Exactly. You just have to guide them.”
Clark shook his head at Arthur in protest. “Yours is your subject,” he turned to Barry. “And yours is your nephew. You already know them. Me? I don't have anyone like that.”
“Kara?” Dinah asked with a raised eyebrow, cool in spite of her flushed cheeks and her nearly empty wine glass.
“She doesn’t count, she doesn’t…” Clark deflated. “Alright, you have a point.”
Diana hummed, slamming her empty stein cup down. “She does count!”
“I think this is part of the problem!” Hal replied, meeting her eyes. “We need to normalise that sidekicks don’t have to be your relative or your friend. They can just be a stranger you can teach your skills to.”
“Likewho?” Barry quickly asked.
“Like someone in the Lantern Corps or another Martian,” Hal bit his lip, grimacing as he looked over to J’onn. Stupid man. “If we ever find another one, shiiiiiiit, sorry, buddy. I didn't mean to put a damper on—”
“No, no, it is alright,” J’onn said out loud, then switched again to their thoughts. We have seen other Martians in other universes…it is…possible that I will encounter one younger than myself, and if that is the case, then I shall sire them.
“...Well, if you do,” Diana’s expression turned sweet and caring even as she refilled her cup. “I recommend that you treat them with kindness even when they anger you or do something to rebel.”
Oliver loudly insisted, scratching his handlebar moustache while looking up at the ceiling. “And adapt to the person they are!”
“But even then, sometimes they won't listen to anyone, no matter what, right?" Clark laughed heartily, clutching his huge torso. "Even Batman."
"Hn?" Bruce grunted at the sudden mention of his moniker, and everyone in the circle looked at him for the first time in two hours. He waited them out and given the alcohol, he won.
"Why don't you tell us about yours?” Dinah eventually pressed, a twinkle in her eyes as she placed her wine glass down.
“...Mine?” Bruce resisted.
“‘Mine?’ Oh, come on,” Oliver scoffed, pointing at him. “You know who we’re talking about! What was his name again?”
“Nightwing, Dick Grayson,” Clark answered with a happy beam.
“No, before. Rob…bow…Rob…baaaah?” Hal guessed, confused.
Arthur squinted his eyes. “Robber?”
“Robin!” Diana clarified, taking a huge swig of her new drink.
“Oh yeah!” Hal snapped a finger. “Robin! That was his name. Right. Right. I know he changed it, but he's your old sidekick, isn't he, Bats?”
Bruce stiffly shook his head; echoes of Dick’s angry shouting from a couple of months back, when they had tried and failed to work together on yet another case as independent heroes bounced around in his cowled ears. “Partner.”
“Oh, partner. Got it.”
“We don’t really know much about him except that he's been your partneeeer for a long time and he refuses to join the League.”
“I know a lot about him,” Clark pouted.
“Me, as well,” Diana also pouted.
Oliver huffed, staring at the door. “Yeah, well, I don't know.”
“So why don't you tell us more about him?” Hal prodded.
“You have all met him,” Bruce grumbled. Whether it had been whenever the Titans joined them on missions, during social events like these or the rare times the Justice League had been in Gotham, they had.
“Yeah, but that was all business,” Hal smirked teasingly without any real threat, then briefly created a green bat and a raven flying alongside each other. “What’s he like at home? Is he as much of an asshole as you?”
Barry shook his head before Bruce could rip him to pieces. “Hal, you're talkingaboutan18-year-old!”
Half of the group turned to Barry in surprise, and Hal exclaimed as if outraged and waved his hands around. “What! You know him, too?”
“Ehh…somewhat,” Barry made a so-so motion with his hand. “He’s friendswithWally. I've met him afewmoretimes than you have.”
Hal scratched his brown hair. “But that's noooot my point.”
“Then…what is the point?” Arthur asked when everyone – even the calmest heroes – kept looking curious. Like a bunch of teenagers in school. “I don't think we should be gossiping about a child.”
But no one else seemed to agree, judging by their expressions.
Hal scoffed. “We’re not… gossiping, and he’s technically not a child. It was just a polite question!”
“Well,” Arthur sighed heavily, bringing their attention back to him. “I don't think Batman's going to answer.”
Bruce grunted, “That's right.”
Hal’s shoulders fell in response, “Fine,” but not for long. “I can make you talk,” he suddenly asserted with a grin.
“Better men have tried,” Bruce dryly replied.
“He's not lying,” Clark tacked on, ever the good and loyal friend. “I was there.”
“Sure, but those 'better men' aren’t me;” Hal huffed. “I know how to do it.”
“How?” Barry asked, trying to whisper, but failing in his tipsiness.
“By getting him drunk,” Hal whispered back, conspiratorially.
Bruce couldn't help but feel the corner of his lips tilt up for the first time that night, thinking, good luck with that.