Archive of Our Own

Duke Thomas had been with the family for six months. Officially, at least. Had known them for at least a year before that. Age sixteen, now, he had reluctantly allowed them to place him under fostership after being on his own for a while.

It was comfortable enough. He was content to be fostered, even though the offer of adoption remained extended. And he'd been slowly getting used to the chaos, after having been an only child in a (somewhat) normal civilian family (at least on the surface).

He was given independence. Independence that he craved. It had been his most important condition upon joining: that he be a Bat, but not a Robin. Gotham's solo daytime vigilante.

And Bruce had respected that. The others, too, for the most part. (Even if someone occasionally bothered him during patrol.)

And he saw Bruce as a mentor, for sure. He was a good guy. A little rough around the edges, but nothing Duke couldn't handle.

Getting close to him, emotionally, though? Biiiiiit more of a challenge.

It was just...professional boundaries, Duke told himself. Bruce was Batman, and Batman was like, his mentor-supervisor-vigilante landlord. Or something. Not his dad.

He had a dad.

Even if his dad was sort of...Jokerized.

And Bruce wasn't really a paternal figure, either, like how the others viewed him. He liked the guy. Just...didn't need a dad. He was fine. Chilling.

…

Until he wasn't.

Bruce was at Wayne Enterprises as he usually was, on Tuesdays. Lucius was chatting with him about some of their latest investors, and they were bouncing some new project ideas back and forth. It was one of those rare days Bruce actually enjoyed his day job.

"And you know, getting our hands on the meta market would be good," Lucius was saying. "Not Lex Luthor style. But like. Things to help. Got some ideas for some of the JL that could easily be transferred into civvie meta life hack deals," he chuckled.

Bruce hummed. "Small niche. But we don't need to make a profit on it," he agreed quietly. "Might be good. Raise a little awareness. You going to do it?"

Because Lucius didn't need permission. Not from Bruce. Lucius was literally the CEO, a title passed from Bruce to Tim after the whole timestream incident, and then Tim to Lucius.

"Think so," the man agreed. "Thanks for letting me bounce the idea around."

Bruce went to reply, but paused when his phone rang. Duke's contact appeared on the screen.

"Speaking of metas, my favorite one is calling," he chuckled quietly. "I have to take this."

He stepped out into the hallway and hit the green button. "Duke. Everything alright?"

Duke didn't call Bruce very often. Usually, it was about Bat related things, or maybe asking him for something he needed, like a signature for a school trip.

Duke did not usually call Bruce to ask:

"Hey...um. Can you pick me up? M'in the nurses office.” He sounded rather...congested.

Bruce's grip on the phone tightened slightly. The mere thought of Duke injured sent a paternal panic through his spine, though he kept it carefully contained. The kid didn’t like him hovering. 

He’d be hovering anyways. But he tried to delay it. 

Tried.

"Nurse's office?" he repeated calmly. "Are you hurt? I'm on my way."

Already moving toward the elevator, Bruce gave Lucius a quick nod over his shoulder—the universal signal for 'family emergency.' No further explanation needed. 

"...'s just a cold," Duke admitted reluctantly, followed by a poorly muffled sneeze. "'M fine but school policy says someone's gotta pick me up because of my fever." Another pause. "...and Alfred's at that vet conference or. I woulda...not bothered you at work. I keep telling the nurse m'okay and just am gonna keep wearing a mask—"

A woman's voice spoke up in the background. "His temperature is at 102.2, and that's with Tylenol," she mentioned. "I'd come pick him up, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce’s tone shifted from urgency to exasperation. "Just a cold. With a fever over 102." He stepped into the parking garage. "Duke."

There was no anger in the name; just the weight of years parenting stubborn vigilante children downplaying injuries and illness. His footsteps quickened through the garage as he reached for the car keys.

"I'm already on my way," he said. "Have they given you water? And don't say 'yes' if it's been less than half a glass."

Duke shook something that sounded like liquid in a plastic bottle near the receiver. "Powerade. Orange flavored, if it matters,” he mumbled. "I'm fine, Bruce..."

"Okay, good." Bruce slid behind the wheel and started the ignition, trying not to picture Duke shivering and pale and huddled miserably under a scratchy blanket on the nurse's office cot, and failing. He hit the gas. "But you're not fine," he added flatly. His hands drummed against the steering wheel with barely contained impatience as he waited to exit behind a short line of cars at the gate arm. "You have a 102-degree fever."

He paused. Don't. Don't lecture.

"How long have you had a fever?"

Duke was silent on the other end, before clearing his throat. "...I don't know. I wasn't keeping track. Since last night I guess?" he muttered finally.

He had been quiet at dinner. But Bruce had attributed it to one of those frequent I don't want to talk to anyone moods Duke had. Apparently, he'd been sick, and still went to school the next morning.

"Duke." The engine roared as he pulled out of the parking garage faster than strictly necessary. "You should've told me." A pause—too much accusation in that, even for him, so he softened it with, "Before it hit 102 degrees." His fingers clenched the wheel at another red light (why were there so many lights between here and Gotham Academy?!). "And no school tomorrow. Don’t argue."

Duke sniffled snottily into the receiver. "...'kay..." he mumbled in reply. "I'll uh. See you when you get here." And he hung up.

Bruce sighed.

Duke was never...easy to deal with when he was injured. Almost worst than Jason, at times, with allowing people to help.

And this was the teen’s first official BatFlu™ that Bruce would be handling without Alfred.

The rest of the drive passed in a tense blur, punctuated with impatient glances at stoplights and pedestrians and other drivers moving far too slow for his liking.

By the time Bruce pulled into the Gotham Academy parking lot, he was already mentally running through plans to treat Duke's fever, ensure he was hydrated, and maybe coax some soup into him without a fight. Even as he approached the school's main entrance, taking long strides that ate up the hallway with purpose, there was a part of his brain already making up a mental shopping list for ingredients to buy.

Going inside, he went through the usual procedure: visitor's pass from the office, as well as signing an out-of-school form.

Then, to the nurse's office.

Duke was sat on one of the beds, laid back with a washcloth on his head. He looked to have dozed off in the fifteen minutes it had taken Bruce to get there.

The nurse was waiting, and smiled sympathetically as she let Bruce in. "He's a little tired," she whispered. "Was being pretty stubborn about going home. Wasn't until he fell asleep in chemistry that they sent him down here..."

Bruce nodded, keeping his expression neutral as he approached Duke's bedside.

He looked so young curled up on the infirmary cot, shivering despite the blanket, face flushed and breath shallow. But there was no denying the stubborn jut of his chin, even in sleep. It was a look Bruce was intimately familiar with his equally-stubborn vigilante children. He reached out, carefully pushing the washcloth aside to feel Duke's forehead. A hiss escaped him. 

Duke, for his part, just furrowed his brow and reluctantly opened his eyes. A bleary glance up ar Bruce, before he slowly went to sit up. "Mf—I was just. Restin' my eyes," he grumbled, making a distasteful face as the washcloth plopped onto his lap with a wet slap.

"You're burning up." The Batglare™ intensified when Duke crossed him arms. "Stay put while I talk to the nurse." His eyes flicked to the soaked washcloth now lying uselessly in Duke's lap before meeting those sick-blurry golden-brown ones again.

"And put that back."

Duke never responded well to bossy commands. Sure, he could listen during serious matters.

But during a cold? Oh, hell no. The kid was grumpy.

He smacked the wash cloth onto the bedside table before huffing, turning onto his side, and crossing his arms as he practically pouted down at the tiles.

Behind them, the nurse chuckled in quiet amusement.

The corners of Bruce's mouth tugged upward at Duke's grumpy display, but he quickly suppressed it as the nurse drew closer. She looked far too amused by the whole situation. He didn't blame her—he and Duke were probably a pretty comical sight side-by-side, the young teenager bundled in his school uniform and a blanket, scowling like a displeased puppy, and the billionaire-father trying to wrangle his foster son.

"His temperature?" Bruce asked quietly.

"102.4, last I checked," she said. "I can't prescribe or diagnose anything here. But it seems like a pretty straight forward case of the good ol' autumn flu. Been going around," she sighed. "Rest, Tylenol, and plenty of fluids. He'll be right as rain before you know it." She gave Bruce a knowing glance. "And hopefully a bit less grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," Duke grumbled from his very grumpy position on the bed.

Bruce's expression remained impassive, but his shoulders relaxed just slightly at the nurse's assessment as he glanced at Duke. "Hn." He turned back to the nurse with a curt nod of gratitude. "Thank you." He shifted to guide the teen into a sitting position, and, seeing him almost immediately wobble, supported his weight more. "C'mon. Let's—"

A sneeze directly into Bruce's suitjacket. Not that he minded, considering all the other snot he'd had on him in his lifetime. He just hummed and grabbed a couple tissues out to offer over.

Duke took the tissues with one hand, wiping his nose with a groggy sort of “mmmmghhhh", and half-walked, half-stumbled out of the school. He flopped into the backseat as Bruce guided him to, and huffed as he laid across the backseat once prompted. "'M fine," he insisted. "I don't need to lay down. I can stay up."

Bruce's mouth twitched. "Mhm." A single, skeptical hum as he gently adjusted the boy’s position so he wouldn't choke on his own congestion later. He draped his jacket over him like a makeshift blanket.

Then came the inevitable dad move: getting in the drivers seat, pausing, and reaching behind to press the back of his hand against Duke's forehead before starting the car. Still too warm. His frown deepened, but his voice remained steady, gruff yet quiet, so as not to jostle him further awake. "Sleep if you can. I'll wake you when we're home." He turned the AC up.

Internally? He was already mentally rearranging meetings tomorrow because someone was absolutely being put on mandatory couch-jail with soup.

Duke managed a "psssshhh", and a shaky, dismissive wave of the hand.

But five minutes later?

A congested snore from the backseat. When Bruce looked in the mirror, he saw Duke in all of his sleepy glory: mouth hanging open, one leg hiked up and resting on the backs of the seats, his forearm across his forehead, Gotham Academy uniform tie askew.

So much for beating sleep.

This time, the smile that tugged at Bruce's mouth was impossible to suppress.

He shook his head in fond disbelief, eyes warm as they turned back to the road. So stubborn, yet so vulnerable in his fever-induced haze, and so young. For a few minutes—the rest of the drive, really—Bruce simply let the sound of Duke's congested snores fill the car, drowning out the hum of traffic around them.

They arrived in the driveway soon enough. Damian was going to art club after school, and then Cass was picking him up for early patrol. Meaning, it'd just be Bruce and Duke in the mansion. Bruce had already decided to call off of patrol for the night. Just in case.

Duke barely even stirred when the car stopped. He just sort of huffed, closing his mouth and turning his head to the side.

A small blessing, that.

Bruce got out and gently opened the back door, crouching down beside it to carefully scoop the still-sleeping Duke into his arms. He shifted the jacket-blanket higher with one hand, and used the other to support Duke against his chest.

Once he was safely cradled against him, Bruce rose to his feet with a fluid ease only a vigilante could achieve with an admittedly heavy teen. He let out a low hum as he turned to shut the car door with his hip before starting the trek inside. A glance down showed Duke just shifting to get comfortable with a slightly annoyed scrunch of his noise, but no more wakefulness than that.

The manor was extra quiet, today, when Bruce brought them inside. Lacking the usual presence of Alfred, it was just Titus who greeted Bruce at the door, tongue lolling out as he panted happily. The dog sitter (vetted by Damian) who had been taking care of him had already left for the day. Titus, ever the loyal shadow, immediately fell into step behind them as Bruce carried Duke inside. His tail wagged once at the sight of them, though he had enough sense not to bark and wake his sick human. He could probably smell it, Bruce figured.

The large man padded through the halls with quiet familiarity until reaching Duke’s room, where he carefully deposited him onto the bed and removed his shoes and tie. He grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and draped it over him before crouching to press two fingers against Duke's pulse point on his neck. Still fast—fever doing its work there. But steady.

"Hn."

Satisfied for now, Bruce straightened up and quietly cracked open a window. Fresh air was good for sicknesses like this, he remembered his mother once telling him. He turned back toward Titus with a silent head-tilt toward Duke’s sleeping form: Watch.

The massive dog didn’t need a vocal cue; he plopped down right beside the bed with all three-hundred-plus pounds of loyal drooling muscle serving as an unofficial fever guard.

So, Bruce rolled up his sleeves and set off toward one very important mission:

Soup.

Alfred had left the kitchen well stocked. Refrigerated meals and freezer meals, even though he'd be gone for only four days.

And of the meals...

No soup.

Some canned options, just name brands. Probably would do fine.

If Bruce wasn't an overachiever.

There was one meal that Bruce knew how to make well: mulligatawny soup.

His favorite food. Something Alfred had made for him over the years. Something he'd kept the recipe of, and experimented with himself, on those out of town missions that the butler wasn't around.

And right now? It was the perfect option.

Bruce moved through the kitchen with quiet precision, gathering ingredients—lentils, coconut milk, chicken stock—before setting a pot to simmer on the stove.

He chopped onions. It smelled like comfort—like home in a way that even Gotham’s grim skyline couldn’t replicate.

A glance at the recipe card (yellowed at the edges, Alfred's neat cursive penned decades ago) confirmed: "Garlic." Right. That would help fight whatever infection had wormed its way into Duke's immune system. Extra of that.

The rhythmic motion of stirring grounded him as spices bloomed in rich amber swirls beneath his wooden spoon—turmeric for color and anti-inflammatory properties, cumin because warmth settled better than blandness when sick.

After twenty minutes of careful tending, Bruce turned the burner off and took a small taste. Just enough salt...and he could've added more cayenne. Next time, maybe. He didn't want to overdo the spiciness for this batch—not with Duke's stomach likely being more sensitive than usual.

A glance into the room while the soup simmered showed Titus still by Duke's bed, head raised as if to greet him. Bruce's eyes softened briefly. "Good boy," he murmured, and moved back to the kitchen to decide on the best bowls to use.

Duke’s eyes fluttered open. There was a warm weight across his legs, and...

God, something smelled so good.

His stomach rumbled as he sat up a bit and rubbed his eye. A sore cough as his lungs 'woke up'.

Alfred wasn't home. Which meant....

"Bruce?" he called hoarsely.

Bruce’s head snapped up from where he was ladling the soup into a bowl, moving swiftly toward Duke's room. The scent of spices and warmth trailed behind him as he pushed open the door with his shoulder, hands occupied.

"Here."

His voice was quiet as he set the tray down on Duke's nightstand. Steam curled lazily from the bowl of golden-brown broth dotted with lentils and flecks of herbs. A side plate held buttered bread, alongside a glass of water and an open bottle of electrolyte solution.

“Hungry?” he asked, fluffing some pillows behind the teen.

And Duke just...stared, for a moment.

Because here was Bruce, bringing him definitely homemade soup, judging by the spice and broth splatters on the man's dress shirt.

Here was Bruce, looking down at him like he was worried, that slight pinch to his brow, the tension of his jaw.

And here was Bruce, putting his hand on Duke's forehead, and...here was...

Duke didn't realize he'd been getting misty eyed until he was blinking away tears.

Bruce stilled, his hand hovering over Duke’s forehead for a split second too long before slowly lowering to the side of his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye to catch the dampness there. "...Duke?" His voice was softer now, confusion threading through the concern as he crouched down beside the bed. "What's wrong? Does something hurt?"

Duke didn't respond a moment. It took his fever addled brain a moment to even process what was happening, either. But then he spoke, and he sounded more confused than anything.

"...No, I'm uh. I'm good. Just. You looked like my dad for a sec?" he mumbled. "Like. Not actually. Just. Uh. He. When I was sick...he acted like this." He pulled back from Bruce's touch and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles groggily.

Duke talked about his parents plenty. Mostly about his visits to them in the long-term care facility, that he still visited at least a few times a week, even if it had been pretty much confirmed they were going to be Jokerized forever.

Even if it was confirmed his dad would no longer be making him soup and taking care of him during colds.

For a moment, Bruce said nothing—just held Duke’s gaze, his expression unreadable. He understood exactly what Duke wasn’t saying, in that fractured way of someone who knew loss like an old wound.

"...Good." His thumb brushed against the boy’s cheek once more before he pulled back slightly, enough to give him space but not enough to break the moment entirely. "Then I'll keep acting like him." He nudged the bowl of soup closer with one hand—still warm, still waiting. "...Eat some of this before it gets cold," he murmured. "And tell me if it needs more salt."

Duke took it in both hands, staring a moment. His gaze flit up to Bruce. Tired, less angry than before.

An understanding passed in their gazes.

And Duke quietly went to take a bite. And then another.

"...Actually? Thish ish pretty bomb," he informed him through a mouthful. He swallowed before asking; "what is it?"

Relief flickered across Bruce’s face, subtle but there. He leaned back, arms crossed and shoulders set just a little less tense than before. It was a small measure of the weight off his shoulders, knowing that he hadn't messed up or misread the situation. "Mulligatawny. Alfred's recipe."

They lapsed into comfortable quiet, Duke slurping up the soup, followed by a gruff, "Slowly, or it'll upset your stomach,” and Duke grumbling in half hearted protest.

There was a satisfied nod as Bruce took the eventually empty bowl, his eyes scanning the relaxation settling in Duke's face and limbs like warmth from the soup settling in real time. “Okay. Pedialyte. You need fluids.” He held out a bottle.

Duke glanced at it with half lidded eyes. "...You even got the lemon flavor? S'my favorite..." he mumbled appreciatively, going to take it to sip at quietly.

Bruce shrugged. "I noticed," he said, because of course he'd memorized that detail months ago (along with every other preference in this house, from Dick’s cereal brand to Damian’s specific tea blends). His hand lingered on Duke’s shoulder, before he straightened up to turn off the bedside lamp. The room dimmed instantly, softening to the faint glow of Duke’s eyes, the sound of Titus' wagging tail, and Bruce's silhouette by the doorframe.

"...Get some sleep."

But as he was closing the door, Duke used his powers—glowing a bit to "turn the light back on".

"Wait. Bruce?"

Bruce stopped, the door creaking back open as he turned. “Yes?"

Duke was quiet a few moments, before he shrugged, looking down.

"Thanks."

It was a simple statement. But laced with a sincere gratitude.

Bruce paused, before dipping his chin in the barest nod. "...You don’t have to thank me. This is what I’m here for, and what I’m happy to be here for. But you're welcome."

The door clicked shut behind him as he left, and Titus' tail gave a final lazy thump against the floorboards. 

Bruce lingered outside for an extra few seconds just to hear Duke's congested breathing settle into sleep once more.

Duke woke the next morning, feeling...

Well.

Awful.

Sleeping while being sick always ended up with the worst sore throat in the morning. And as Duke sat up in bed and reached for a tissue, he wobbled.

“Ugh. Ack-hck.”

Being sick was the worst. He could handle broken bones, concussions, stab wounds. But being sick?

He stumbled out of his room, still half-in his Gotham Academy uniform from yesterday (dress shirt and slacks), and made his way to the medbay to scrounge for cough syrup.

Bruce found him minutes later, squinting under the fluorescents and fumbling through one of the med room's many cabinets. He leaned in the doorway with an unamused frown that was only softened by the way his eyes skimmed over Duke for any new signs of disorientation.

"You're supposed to be resting."

Duke glanced at him with a tired frown. No retorts today—just a:

"..hhkhh,"

that made Bruce realize Duke had officially lost his voice.

Bruce sighed, stepping forward and catching Duke's wrist before he could continue digging through the med supplies like some kind of disoriented raccoon. He didn't say anything, just steered him toward the cot with one hand while grabbing what they actually needed from the shelves with the other: cough syrup, fever reducers, bottled water. 

By the time he turned back around, Duke had already slumped onto the edge of bed looking miserable in a way only sick teenagers could, disheveled and pouting, but Bruce was at least relieved to see him off his feet again. He handed over medicine without comment before reaching for a thermometer from one of Alfred’s neatly labeled drawers.

Silently, he held it up between them expectantly, the unspoken Open. loud enough without words.

Duke had taken a cup full of cough syrup before opening his mouth groggily, eyes half lidded as he waited. By the time it came back, Bruce was frustrated to see it was the same as yesterday: 102.4.

Not emergency levels. But definitely not great.

He wanted to do something—anything—but settled for nudging the water bottle toward Duke with a silent Drink while he sorted through his thoughts (and resisted the urge to call Leslie right this second).

Instead, he reached out and pressed the back of his hand against Duke's forehead again, like the thermometer may not have been right, lips thinning at the persistent heat. "Hn."

Not good enough. Not when Alfred’s soup hadn’t broken it yet, not when medicine alone wasn't cutting it. A muscle in Bruce's jaw twitched before he straightened up with new determination and grabbed a fresh washcloth from one of their sterile drawers, moving toward the sink to dampen it with cold water.

They weren’t leaving this medbay until that fever dropped even half a degree, if he had anything to say about it.

Duke drank maybe half the bottle before cringing, a hand moving to grip at his throat. No doubt swallowing hurt right now. Even if the kid's pain tolerance was super high, like the rest of them, sore throats were just a different beast entirely.

Bruce paused mid-wringing-out-the-cloth, and set the cool compress aside for now. Instead, he grabbed one of their emergency popsicles from the medbay freezer (lime-flavored because of course he remembered Duke’s preference for citrus) before unwrapping it with quick fingers and pressing it into the teen’s free hand without ceremony.

"Suck on this," he instructed gruffly, before turning back toward dampening that washcloth properly. "It'll help."

Duke took it with a huff. He flopped back against the slightly raised medbay bed, quietly eating the popsicle and staring somewhere at his own feet in that half lidded, I don't feel good look that never failed to make Bruce into a mother hen with any of his kids.

Bruce wasn’t hovering.

(He was definitely hovering.)

With the now-chilled washcloth in hand, he stood at Duke's bedside, pressing the compress against the back of his neck with practiced efficiency. They stood in silence, for a few minutes. But as time dragged on, Bruce murmured, “You’re never allowed to hide being sick again."

Duke glanced up at Bruce blearily. It took a couple moments to even process what he'd said. But then, he gave a very casual, lost my voice reply: a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders.

Bruce leveled him with the flattest I know you heard me look possible, and another, more insistent press of the cool cloth against his overheated skin. "Hn."

(Translation: This conversation isn’t over.)

But for now? He'd let it slide. Because someone looked about two seconds from passing out mid-popsicle, and Bruce wasn't cruel enough to start a lecture when fever-addled teenagers were involved.

Yet.

Eventually, Duke had finished the popsicle, and the cold compress had done its work. When Bruce took his temperature next, it read:

101.9.

Progress.

Finally, finally, a real sign of improvement, and it was like Bruce’s prayer had been answered. He set the thermometer aside, glancing down at Duke to see half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks and rumpled clothes and messy hair that stuck up in three different directions.

Any minute now, he was sure Duke was going to make some smart-alec comment about being babied, or how stubborn he was being, or how he could handle being sick by himself—or something with that typical teenager sass that came so easily to all of them.

But instead...

Duke's head lolled to flop right into Bruce's chest, his temple against his sternum.

And he stayed there.

Duke was never a...touchy, Bat. Not since coming here. He didn't hate it, maybe would even occasionally initiate hugs himself, but.

Never with Bruce. Never like right now.

Bruce froze.

It wasn’t that he minded the contact—he didn’t. He never did with any of them, even if he wasn't always good at initiating it himself. But this? This was new territory. Duke had always been more reserved with him, careful in a way Dick never was or Damian pretended not to be.

For a split second, Bruce just stood there like someone had hit his pause button while Duke's fever-warmed weight leaned against him without protest or hesitation for the first time since he'd arrived in this house. Then, ever so slowly (as if one wrong twitch might spook him), Bruce lifted a hand and rested it against the back of Duke's head, briefly carding over his tight curls before settling into something steady and grounding.

"...Hn." Soft, now. He adjusted his stance to better support him without jostling whatever fragile trust had just been offered up between cough syrup and popsicle sticks. "Let's get you back to bed."

Duke nodded. Apparently, he didn't have the energy for pretending to be awake. Instead, he rose slowly, and followed Bruce much like a very sad, very exhausted little duckling.

"...Can't believe I'm saying this," Bruce began almost conversationally (it was that or dwell on how oddly easy the whole situation had felt), "but you look worse than Dick does when he's sick."

Duke gave him a dry look in response, but even that faded into exhaustion. He laid into bed once Bruce had prompted him to, eyes shutting slowly as he let out a slow breath. After a moment, he lifted his hands to sign—talking was too rough on his throat right now.

[My parents,] came the shaky gestures. [Supposed to visit them today. Can you call the facility? Make sure they are okay?]

Bruce just hummed. "I already did." His words were slower than usual to make sure Duke could follow despite the fever haze. "Their vitals are stable. No changes. You can see them when you're better."

A promise and command together—one he'd enforce with his own two hands if needed, because no way was Duke leaving this house until his temperature was normal for at least 24 hours.

The news seemed to make Duke relax at least. He huffed what was probably meant to be a thanks, before closing his eyes slowly again.

It took barely three minutes before the teen was back to sleep.

Bruce lingered for a moment longer, just enough to make sure Duke was actually asleep and not faking it for the sake of his own stubbornness. Once satisfied, he gave Titus another quiet command ("Stay.") before finally stepping back into the hall.

Time to go inform Alfred—via text because no way was he risking waking Duke with a call—that yes, everything was handled, and no, they didn’t need to cut their conference short, and please stop fussing from across state lines.

Then?

Soup refill prep.

The rest of the day went the same as previous. Duke was occasionally stirred for soup, tea, pedialyte, or meds.

Duke occasionally would lean on Bruce while his temperature was taken (staying between 101 and 102).

And Duke would be tucked back into bed to continue sleeping it off.

Around 10pm, with Duke out for the night, Bruce had gone on patrol, though a short one, returning around 2am, showering and plopping into bed after not sleeping since yesterday. He’d stayed home, yes, but he’d still done investigative work.

And after a long day?

He drifted off into a light sleep.

“Duke, buddy?”

Heavy lids fluttered open. Duke felt a hand on his hand. Warm, heavy, familiar.

“...mgh. Yeah, dad?”

Doug stood above him, smiling and shifting his hand to cup Duke’s face. The boy nuzzled into it, yawning, tugging his stuffed dog closer to his side. He was in his favorite pajamas, the ones with the Flash logo all over them. The red fabric was soft, and fluffy. His bare feet shifted under his blankets as his father gently tugged him up to sit.

“I brought you some soup. Your mom’s out late, she had an emergency with one of her clients…” He fluffed the pillows behind small shoulders, squeezing one, before putting a makeshift tray on his lap using a pillow and a plate with a bowl of soup on top. 

Butternut squash. Bread, cookie-cut into the shape of stars.

Lemon-flavored pedialyte. 

“Thanks, dad…”

Duke took a slow sip of the soup, his eyes half lidded. It was the homemade kind. His dad always used the big crockpot when Duke got sick. One of the legs was a glued, makeshift stack of soda bottle caps. He swore he could taste the echoes of soups past in it. The thought filled him with warmth. 

He could always rely on Doug to be there for him.

“Sure, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

Duke cleared his throat. The sound seemed to echo. He furrowed his brow, but he ignored it. Probably just ear congestion. 

“Kinda crappy.”

“Language.”

“That wasn’t even a bad word!”

Doug chuckled, patting Duke’s cheek. “Still. No Thomas should be usin’ crude language.” He gently lifted a piece of bread to feed it to him. “...You’re getting tall, kiddo. Gonna need to get you a new set of PJs soon.”

“But–mf.” Duke swallowed the bite, before opening his mouth again. “I like these ones.”

“I know, buddy. But things change, y’know?” Doug murmured. As Duke looked up at him, he noticed…

The dark browns of his irises had changed to slate-blue.

That wasn’t…

Right.

“...Dad?”

“Eat your soup, buddy.”

Duke turned his gaze down. The smooth consistency of the bowl had changed–onions, carrots, celery, lentils. 

“What…What is…?”

“Mulligatawny soup,” Doug said, except, the warm tenor had changed to a smooth baritone. Had changed from New Jersey working class to the smooth drawl of a socialite. “Alfred’s recipe.”

“Alfred? Who’s–”

Duke looked around the room. His posters were missing. His comforter had changed from plaid and worn to brand new and silky white. 

“Dad?”

“Yes, Duke?”

Bruce stood over him. Doug was gone. Doug was–

“Hic–”

The room was getting brighter.

“Hic!”

Duke shot up in bed, his vision swimming, his body wobbling. He felt too tall. Everything was too much; the thick feeling of mucus in the back of his throat, the soreness of an inflamed throat, the tightness in his chest.

“Hic…ksssh. Huu–uuuuuuh…” 

Sobbing. Was he crying? Titus had gotten up from the bed and left, disoriented, hitting the wall before making it out the cracked door. Everything was so bright. He missed his dad, where was his…

With shaking shoulders, Duke hugged his knees,

and broke.

A sharp rap at Bruce's door.

"Father," his youngest called firmly.

Bruce groaned, turning over and squinting a bit in the dark. The clock beside his bed read 4am. Damian must have been dropped off from patrolling with Jason and Tim.

"What?"

It was a testament to their father-son relationship that he didn't actually sound annoyed, just tired, resigned, and fond all at the same time.

But it wasn't the usual report of the night, or some comment about Bruce "slacking as Batman".

Instead, Damian opened the door with a somewhat nervous frown.

"Thomas's room is glowing."

Bruce shot up so fast that his knees almost cracked against the nightstand in the process.

"What."

Not a question this time.

His bare feet slapped against cold hardwood as he moved toward the door with all the urgency of someone who'd just heard "The Batmobile is on fire.”

If Duke was using his powers now, when he was supposed to be unconscious and recovering from fever—something had to be wrong. Very wrong.

And it was.

As Bruce neared the door, it wasn't just glowing—where the door had been cracked open for Titus to move in and out was practically blinding. A strip of light met the opposite hall wall.

Damian wordlessly handed Bruce some dimming goggles, squinting a bit from his position away from the beam of light. They went on with practiced ease (it wasn't the first time they've been necessary) and—once he could see again—it was even worse.

Duke was...

Definitely not okay. Emotionally, that was. He was curled up in a ball on the bed, a blaring bundle of light with his knees tucked to his chest, and silent sobs wracking his frame. He looked out of it. No doubt fever delirium. But that didn't make the emotions escaping him any less raw.

Bruce lingered in the doorway. Part of him wanted to take one more second to collect his thoughts and approach with his usual calculated calm, but the rest of him, the part that was still half asleep and hadn't quite shaken off his concern from earlier, moved without waiting. 

He approached the bed. His hand wrapped around Duke's wrist as he crouched to his level and spoke as quietly, and as soothingly, as he knew how. "Duke," he said, tone firm but not harsh. "Look at me." The request was ignored, at first. Duke just audibly sobbed, once, and the room grew a fraction brighter. It made Bruce squint even with the glasses on.

"Duke." More firm now. More insistent. "Look at me."

If there was one thing he knew how to do without losing himself to panic, it was commanding the attention of a disoriented teen. And the command—the Batman growl—did get through. Duke's eyes opened hazily, tearful, meeting Bruce's goggled gaze. Disoriented, but processing now, even slowly.

Bruce exhaled through his nose and shifted closer, grip loosening just enough to not be uncomfortable. "Good." The words came quieter now—less Batman, more Bruce. "You with me?" A pause as he studied Duke’s face—checking for clarity in those golden eyes before adding, "Tell me what happened."

Duke blinked a few times. Confusion warring with the distress in his body. For a moment, Bruce assumed he would tell him he had a flashback. Would tell him he'd hallucinated Gnomon in the room. Would tell him that he was seeing sleep paralysis demons.

He didn't assume Duke would say, with all the emotion of a child:

"I miss my dad..."

Something in Bruce's chest twisted.

For a moment, he just looked at Duke, and saw the same raw ache that had kept him awake nights after his parents' deaths. The kind that didn't care about time or healing or moving on. The kind that just hurt.

His grip loosened, hand sliding down to hold Duke's instead as he exhaled slowly. "...I know."

There was nothing else to say, no words that could make this better without feeling hollow. He’d tried them all himself over the years. So he just pulled the kid into a proper hug without another word. And Duke let him. Curled small against Bruce's broad chest, he squeezed his eyes shut...

And sobbed in earnest. Not silent this time. Not holding it in only for it to escape through blinding light instead.

Just. Cries. Wails. The kind that came from repressed grieving spilling out in ways Bruce knew all too well.

One arm hooked around Duke's shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head, holding him steady as if he could somehow squish the grief out. He didn’t shush him. Didn’t tell him to stop or that it would be okay or any other meaningless platitude. Just held on, his own breath tight in his chest with every shuddering sob that wracked Duke's frame.

He understood this kind of pain too well. The kind that clawed its way up when you least expected it—when you were exhausted, when your defenses were down, when some stupid little thing reminded you all over again that they were gone.

His chin rested against Duke’s hair as he exhaled roughly, the closest thing to a confession he could manage right then:

"...I miss them too."

By then, the glow was starting to recede. Less million suns and more LED lamppost.

Duke hiccuped against his chest. Grit his teeth, before pressing his face into Bruce a little more.

"How...how d'you..."

Cope, was what was left unsaid. Feel better, even more. Because Bruce knew that desperation, grasping at straws and seeking any comfort for a pain that would always be there.

"Not well, usually."

The words were out before Bruce could stop them. He had a whole collection of go-to phrases: I keep busy, I keep moving, I throw myself into whatever work needs doing, I focus on my kids...all of them equally hollow. Not a single one of them was going to help right now. Not when Duke was holding on so tightly, eyes still teary, and looking at him like he had some all-knowing answer for something even he didn't understand half the time.

But Duke didn't seem upset. Just...quietly disappointed. Maybe relieved. Maybe understanding.

He let out another, weaker sob into Bruce's collarbone.

Bruce kept him grounded while he cried, fingers combing softly over his hair like he'd learned to do when Dick had the same kind of break downs as a kid. It was the kind of ugly, messy grief that no one wanted to watch but always felt better after.

Eventually, the tears slowed to whimpers. The shaking quieted to a shiver. And Duke's grip went lax, body going heavy and tired against Bruce's chest. The glow in the room faded completely. What was left was a very emotionally and physically drained heap of metahuman teen faintly trembling in Bruce's arms.

And Bruce, knowing exhaustion when he saw it (and especially when he felt it), shifted slightly to get a better grip on the kid before scooping him up. "Bed," was all he said, voice low but firm, already turning toward his own room with Duke held securely against his chest. “You’re sleeping in my room.”

A breath left Duke that suggested relief. Like he'd been worried about being left alone. A calloused hand fisted tighter into Bruce's shirt. An unfamiliar, yet nostalgic one that came from this being Duke, Duke allowing Bruce to hold him like this, and from Bruce's experience with every other kid mirroring this exact scenario.

He was careful not to jostle Duke too much as he moved, one hand shifting under his knees to better support him and the other resting against his head. The kid was all but dead weight by now, exhausted in that way that only came from a total emotional release like that. He hadn't seen so much as a hint of those glowing eyes in the past ten minutes, and his breathing had evened into something slow and steady.

Once they reached his room, Bruce managed to kick the door shut behind them with some creative maneuvering before turning his full attention back onto the kid in his arms.

But he knew Duke wasn't asleep. Not yet. Could tell it in the faint tension of his jaw, the grip on his shirt. Please, don't let go. Please, hold me. Please, make the pain less.

The echoes of a child craving paternal comfort where he had been stubbornly refusing it for almost two years.

Bruce knew that feeling all too well, both from the kids he'd held in his arms and the kid he'd been decades before. He eased Duke onto the bed, making sure he was propped up enough on pillows before sitting down and gathering him against his chest one more time. One arm slid underneath to hold him closer, and the other started up that familiar pattern of rubbing his back.

"Easy," he murmured quietly, more for himself than anyone else. "I've got you."

The silence in the room was heavy. But not uncomfortable. Just a shared grief, an understanding, a resignation, and a comfort all in the background noise of a moving fan and a cricket somewhere out in the manor grounds.

Slowly, the tension bled from Duke's shoulders. Slowly, he let his own arm wrap around Bruce's rib cage. Slowly, he inched a bit closer before settling.

New territory. Maybe a bit of foster-kid-awkwardness.

But accepting it. Finally letting Bruce fill that need for parental comfort, even without official adoption papers.

Bruce’s chin rested against the top of Duke's head, eyes falling shut as the exhaustion that always came with the aftershock to these kinds of things settled into the space between his ribs. "Proud of you, kid." His hand slid from his back, cradling his head. "Really proud."

And Duke let out a sort of tired whine, one that suggested, stop, or I'm going to start crying again.

But he didn't move away. Just laid there, starting to drift, still warm with fever, but feeling more secure than he had in several months.

Bruce got it. He pressed a kiss to Duke's temple before shifting just enough so they were both comfortable but not smothered.

The lights were off, the door was locked, and Damian had likely long since gone back to his own room by now. There was nothing left but quiet and safety and the kind of heavy exhaustion that came from grief.

So, Bruce let himself relax into the pillows with Duke still tucked under his chin, fingers idly carding over his short curls while listening to his breathing slow down towards sleep.

He followed suit.

Alfred found them like that hours later, returning from his trip. Bruce, sleeping and slightly flushed in a way that suggested his own fever, but curled protectively around the teen all the same.

He didn’t wake them.

Just set down fresh water and meds on the nightstand with a knowing glance, before quietly shutting the door behind him again.

In Bruce’s arms?

Duke was held.

Maybe not by Doug,

but by someone who cared just as much.