#batdictionary

[unavenged-robin]

Possible angst prompt: Red Hood finding Talon!Dick on the streets?? Or just Talon!Dick in general? Congrats on 2K followers that amazing!!! 💕💕

*meant to put that with my first ask so sorry about that!* “What happened to you?” -Jason Todd to Talon!Dick

Definitive angst prompt XD And thank you! ♥ This turned out to be much longer and more complicated than I had imagined at first but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway. 

Moving back to the Manor had not been an easy decision for him, and there were days - but mostly nights - when the very idea of staying even one more minute in that big, silent house, was unbearable and infuriating, and every instinct in his body would start screaming for him to run, and hide, and forget about everything and everyone. Voices inside his head would remind him that he didn’t owe anybody shit, that he wasn’t the one to blame for how the things had gone wrong, that this time he wasn’t the one who let the family down, that the silence in the house was not his fault.

But Jason has a trick for nights like those (nights like this one).

“Hey, brat!”, he calls out to the kid perched on the couch as he enters the living room. “Let’s go out.”

Damian doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. He does, however, raise his middle finger at him.

“Try that again and I’ll break every bone in your hand”, Jason warns amiably and then, before Damian decides to take him up to the challenge, he approaches the boy and, with a quick movement, snatches the phone away from his hands.

“Hey!”, Damian protests, immediately trying (and failing) to grab it back. Jason raises his hand over his head, way out of Damian’s reach, and smiles down at the kid.

“Come on, put on some shoes and let’s go grocery shopping”, he prompts him. “Alfred said he needed a few things for tomorrow’s lunch.”

Damian glares at him.

“I believe that Pennyworth is more than capable of getting groceries on his own, Todd”, he answers with his best snotty tone, the one that suggests he’s already doing Jason a great favor by acknowledging his presence on this Earth.

Jason snorts.

“And good thing he is. Otherwise this family would have gone extinct for some time now.”

Damian, having clearly reached the limit of his patience with Jason’s teasing - and most likely with Jason in general - stands up on the couch armrest and reaches out his hand again to recover the stolen phone, only realizing his mistake when he sees Jason grinning like the Cheshire cat. To give credit to the kid, he only groans in defeat when Jason wraps an arm around his waist and lifts him up to throw him over his shoulder, a gesture that has now become almost a habit for both of them (although with different degrees of appreciation).

“Put me down, you big oaf!”, Damian yells as usual, struggling in Jason’s hold despite the fact that he knows it will not help him one bit. Jason only laughs, readjusts his grip on the boy, and starts walking, not paying any attention to the indignant cries and insults spitted out at him.

As per script now, little fists promptly begin to storm down on every inch of his back that the kid manages to reach, but they’re not as violent as they could be, and fists are not even the best weapon Damian could use against him in the position he’s in. There are unprotected nerves that he could reach and hit if he really wanted, and a little pressure on one of those points would damage Jason in a much more serious way than a few punches, and Damian knows it as well as Jason does, since the first times he found himself flipped over his shoulder he went directly for those.

In a way, Jason supposes that it’s kind of sweet on Damian’s part to now accept the (sometimes not so) gentle bullying as if he had finally - albeit reluctantly, and definitely not without a fight - submitted to his role of younger brother.

He still tries to kick Jason in the groin, though. The little shit.

Jason half-heartedly swats the kid’s bottom in retaliation, then he peeks his head into the kitchen.

“Hey Alf, do you have a list of things to pick up for us? We’re heading out anyway.”

“No, we’re not!”, Damian yells, still kicking his feet over Jason’s shoulder. “Pennyworth, Todd took me hostage!”

Alfred stops stirring for the time needed to cast a glance at the unlikely duo standing in the doorframe of his kitchen, then raises an eyebrow at them.

“I can write down a list for you, Master Jason”, he answers after a moment. “And Master Damian, you should know that my policy in cases of kidnapping of your person by family members is of non-intervention. Unless there is evidence of ill or deadly intentions, of course.”

Damian groans and for a moment it looks as if he has accepted the inevitable defeat, then he gives a sudden jerk and goes again for Jason’s testicles, which only earns him another swat.

“Ow! You’re a bully”, the kid growls, slumping in frustration against him.

“I’m doing my job of older brother in teaching you the injustices of the world”, Jason replies, patting him in mock comfort.

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep”, Damian declares, then he huffs and lifts himself up as much as he can, making a point of sinking his elbows into Jason’s back. “Can I have my phone back at least?”

“Nope. And if you try to kick me again I’m gonna drop you on your head.”

Obviously Damian kicks him again. Obviously Jason doesn’t drop him. (But only because Alfred was watching.)

-

Supermarkets at night always have a surreal touch. Perhaps it’s because of all those bright neon lights buzzing and shining on every surfaces they find, and the crowded lanes that seem to become empty in the blink of an eye. Perhaps it’s the sound of the cart wheels that gets louder and louder as you move away from the front door, while the music in the background quietly disappears into white noise. Perhaps it’s the idea of the hidden cameras in the corners of the shop spying on him, recording his every move.

Damian doesn’t seem bothered by any of this, Jason notices. Although it could be because he’s again too much focussed on the phone that he’s just regained.

“Don’t you have the impression of being watched?”, Jason asks, and the question takes a few seconds too long to overcome for interest the colorful game that seems to absorb all of his little brother’s attention.

Once the words sink, though, Damian stops beside him and looks up, first at Jason, then at their surroundings. He maintains a pretty believable expression of teenage boredom, but his eyes are serious and attentive now, as he considers the possible implications of Jason’s remark.

It takes him all of thirty second to click his tongue at his older brother and dismiss him as a paranoid idiot.

“I mean it”, Jason insists, but Damian rolls his eyes at him and moves to grab a box of cereals from the lowest shelf.

“Is this okay?”, he asks. “Pennyworth’s note only says ‘cereals’, with no other specifications.”

Jason scratches his head and throws a few more glances all around.

“Yeah, sure”, he agrees distractedly, taking the box from the kid’s hand and throwing it into the cart. They turn the corner of another empty lane, reaching the frozen food section and the large windows facing the street outside.

The only lights out there are the familiar tall, black, and vaguely gothic - like everything else in that city - Gotham’s street lamps. All Jason can see is black asphalt, deserted sidewalks and puddles of dirty water. Nothing weird. Nothing out of place.

And yet there is this feeling in the back of his mind that makes his skin crawl. It’s been tormenting him since they stepped out of the car and he can’t shake it off. The feeling of being observed, cautiously studied by cold eyes, as if he were a prey. And not any prey either. He feels like a mouse hidden in the grass that senses the presence of an owl behind him. It’s a feeling Jason doesn’t like but one he knows.

Besides, there’s something else to it now. Something painful, something that’s mostly wishful thinking on his part, but that keeps tugging at his strings. Jason needs to know if he’s right. He needs to try, and he needs to do it alone. So he grabs Damian’s hand, pushing him forward and closer to the cashier, where a small group of people is waiting for their turn to pay.

“What are you doing?”, the boy complains, indignant.

“Here”, Jason retorts, handing the grocery list and the cart to the boy. “Pick up the milk, the eggs, and whatever junk food you think Alfred doesn’t know you keep hidden in your room, then wait for me here, okay?”

“What? No!”, Damian protests. “It was your idea to come here in the first place, you’re not going to burden me with-”

“Yes, I am”, Jason cuts him off. “It’s only gonna take five minutes, stop being a baby about it.”

An old woman in the checkout line turns around to look at them. She gives Damian an encouraging smile that succeeds in both making the boy blush and in interrupting the tantrum before it could escalate into a full fight, but also, Jason suspects, in cementing Damian’s intention to kill him in his sleep. He will have to make sure to bar the door of his bedroom tonight.

“Five minutes”, Jason promises to the kid.

“I will cut you into pieces and feed your remains to Quinn’s hyenas”, Damian promises back, still red in the face.

Jason pats him on the head and moves towards the exit, trying not to run.

-

Here’s a fact: owls are one of nature’s best killing machines. They’re created to be so. Every detail of their body is designed to make it easier for them to hunt, to better surprise their victims and to never let them escape once they’ve been captured. Owls are ruthless killers, and yet it’s quite easy to forget this little detail about them. Nowadays when people thinks of owls, they think about Harry Potter. Not here in Gotham, though. Here in Gotham people remember the murderers more than they remember movies and books. That’s evolution for you.

Jason’s not an owl, but he’s a pretty decent hunter (and killer, when needed) too. Not that his prey is making such a great effort to hide. The footsteps over his head are careful and feather-lighted, but still very detectable in the silence of the streets. And Jason can’t be sure that it’s him but at the same time he is. Because it wouldn’t make sense otherwise. And because if it isn’t him, then Jason has committed a terrible mistake in leaving Damian behind.

The sound of footsteps stops just above him. Jason looks up but the darkness mixes shapes and shadows and he can’t distinguish almost anything in it, except the profile of a fire escape staircase crawling up the side of a building. There could not be a clearer invitation, Jason thinks. So he grits his teeth and climbs the steps carefully, one hand over his gun, the deafening sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, waiting for an attack that he hopes will never come. (Because it’s him. Of course it’s him.)

He reaches the roof of the building undisturbed, and still finds only shadows waiting for him. But one of those shadows is familiar enough for Jason to breath a sigh that is both relief and something uncomfortably close to fear.

“Dick?”

A mask of black and gold slowly emerges from the darkness and it’s not his brother’s face, but it’s the closest thing to it that Jason has seen in months.

“Dick”, he breathes again, and the names almost sounds like a prayer on his lips.

He can see the Talon better now. The slim but solid body wrapped in black armor, the daggers lined up on his chest, the twitching blades in his hands. Jason swallows and takes a step forward.

“Hey.”

Silence. He doesn’t even hear the sound of a breathe coming from him (from it?). He had a conversation about this with Bruce once. Are Talons even alive?, he had asked him. It had been a sterile debate, an exercise in ethics and syntax that had ended with nothing but the usual resentment. Then Dick had gone and become one of them, and there had been no more space for any moral debate.

“What happened to you?”, Jason asks now, slowly, like he were talking to a feral animal instead of his older brother. “I mean… I know what you did. Why you did it. But why not come back? Why not let us help you after-”

He stops, licks his lips. The Talon in front of him hasn’t moved one inch, there’s no way to tell if he’s even listening to his rambling. There’s no way to tell if he is Dick either, and it kills Jason that as much as he wishes he could, he’s not capable of recognizing his own brother among all the Court of Owls’ soldiers.

“Do you remember when I first came back?”, Jason goes on, even though deep down he believes that his efforts are useless at this point. But he needs to at least try to connect with the creature in front of him, with what remains of his brother. And something of him must have remained, otherwise why would the Talon being spying on them in the first place? “Do you remember what you told me then? That I could come home? That whatever war I was fighting, we could fight it together?”

He is paraphrasing a bit, but a little white lie is not going to hurt anybody, right? No more than they already are, at least.

“I didn’t trust you. I didn’t know if you really meant it, if it was true or not. Not back then. But you should know that it’s true now”, because Jason’s ready to make sure it is. “Come home, Dick. Bruce needs you. The kids need you. They even called a truce for you, that’s how bad it is. Tim’s going crazy trying to find you, and Damian… well.”

The Talon shifts at the mention of the names, the motion almost invisible, but Jason is too focused on him not to notice it. He has no idea on what it means, though.

“You saw Damian down there, didn’t you?”, Jason insists. “The kid is heartbroken, Dick. And he’s angry. Angrier than he was when Talia dropped him here the first time, which it says something, if I can add my two cents. And you still care about him, right? So if not for the rest of us- for the rest of them, I mean, then at least do it for him, Dick. Do it for Damian?”

It comes out like begging, and Jason hates it. But if it works then whatever. He can always deny everything later.

“Dick…”

He realizes in a quick moment that it had not been the mention of the kids’ names that had bothered the Talon, but his very own. And apparently he had just reached the limit of his patience with it.

The Talon’s speed is inhumane. Jason has barely the time to see him move, let alone try to react or to defend himself. If this was a lethal attack, then his life would’ve ended in the space of a heartbeat, with a flash of red and gold. It is almost funny, the idea of dying on an anonymous rooftop, by the hand of someone that once claimed to love him. Someone he loves. Times like this, Jason feels like he can almost understand Bruce, all the things he did and still does, the burden he drags along every step Batman takes and that sometimes threatens to pull all of them down with him.

The hand that land on his chest seems to be made of stone and steel and knocks the wind out of him. He’s pushed backwards, his back collides with one of the chimneys behind him and Jason wheezes, tries to reach out a hand to stop him, to shield himself. He manages to grab the Talon’s wrist, fingers wrapping around the rough gauntlet of his uniform, but he’s not strong enough to move it, and the Talon’s other hand is crushing him, making his vision falter and waver, black spots blooming in front of him where the Talon’s face should be. He doesn’t even know where his gun is, and even if he did, he’s not sure that he would be able to use it.

One thing he still can see - that he can only see now, from this close - is that there are eyes behind the red lens. Blue eyes. His brother’s eyes. But there’s no sign of recognition in them, no familiar spark. Dick is a Talon, and the Talon is Dick, and for some reason, until a moment ago, Jason thought those were two very different things. It’s weird to only realize it now, because he’s never been one for denial when it came to things like this. People change, he supposes.

He blacks out while watching the owl mask in front of his face moving oh so slightly, as if the Talon were trying to speak (trying to ask for help), but no sound escapes Dick’s lips, and whatever the Talon is trying to tell to him, Jason doesn’t understand it.

The last thing he feels is a light brush of something cold and hard against his forehead, and then everything goes black.

-

He wakes up maybe thirty seconds, definitely less than a minute later, which is still enough time for the Talon to disappear into the night. Jason wasn’t expecting anything less. He doesn’t even bother with looking around for him.

His chest hurt, and so does his back as he carefully stands up and retrieves his gun from the floor. Getting down the stairs and dragging himself back to the supermarket is no fun, and it’s even less funnier when he has to straighten himself and pretend that nothing happened for the sake of the kid standing angrily in the street with two grocery bags at his feet and another into his arms.

The old woman from the checkout line is standing next to Damian, a grocery bag of her own in her arms, and from what Jason can see she’s smiling down at Damian and talking his ear off about something that Jason can’t grasp. Her presence is probably the only reason Jason’s greeted with a glare and a laconic “you are late”, instead of a punch and a colorful series of insults.

“Sorry, kiddo”, Jason concedes, then politely nods at the woman. “Thank you, Miss…”

The old woman gives him a smile that lacks in teeth but not in kindness.

“Only Ettie, dear.”

Jason smiles back at her, feeling a little surreal.

“Thank you for keeping an eye on my little brother, Ettie.”

“Oh, don’t mention it, dear”, the woman says. “Gotham is not a safe place for children to be left alone in the streets, you know? Especially at night.”

Jason’s shaken enough by the night’s events to actually feel guilty at her words.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry”, he repeats.

They talk for a few more minutes. About what, Jason really can’t say. He forgets the words as soon as they leave his lips, but at least he has the time to get back in control of both his body and his mental faculties, and by the time the old woman waves them goodbye he feels okay again. As okay as he’s ever gonna be, at least. Damian, on his part, only grumbles under his breath for the entire time, narrowing his eyes in a glare that promises a painful revenge for every second of this torture he’s forced to endure.

“You said five minutes”, the kid remembers him through gritted teeth once Ettie is distant enough. “What were you doing? Where did you go? If you dare again to-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay”, Jason repeats. “How many times do I have to apologize to you? I just had a little setback, that’s all. It’s all good now. You got everything?”

Another furious glare.

“Of course I did.”

“Good.”

Jason sighs and rubs one hand over his face. Damian takes a break from his rightful indignation to observe him with an almost worried sulk.

“Todd? Are you okay?”, the kid asks, losing the attitude for a moment.

I think I have two broken ribs, Jason wants to answer. He doesn’t. Partly because there’s no reason to tell Damian about tonight’s encounter, and partly because there’s that feeling again. Inhuman eyes looking down at him. Silent lips mouthing off words with no sound. A trapped bird, Jason realizes. That’s what Dick looked like.

He shivers. He knows the Talon’s back. And a part of him wants to look up, but if he does then Damian would follow his gaze and see Dick too. And that’s at least one nightmare that Jason can spare to the kid.

“Todd?”, Damian asks again.

Jason only shakes his head.

“Let’s go home.”

He leans down to pick up the grocery bags from the sidewalk and has to stop midway to not let out a moan. Yeah, definitely two broken ribs. Maybe three. Damian’s hand grips his arm and the kid tilts his head to the side, studying him.

Jason opens up his mouth to reassure him, but before he can speak the distinct sound of footsteps starts again above their heads, and Damian’s training kicks in place.

“What-”

He’s going to look up, Jason realizes. And if he sees Dick he’s going to go after him, and Jason is in no condition to follow either of them or to face the Talon again. And maybe that’s what the Talon wants. (Not what Dick wants, though). So Jason does the first thing he can think of: he grabs Damian by his shirt to pull him close and, going with the momentum, he kisses him on the forehead. (Like Dick had done on the rooftop, he realizes. Or tried to do as far as the Talon had let him, at least.)

It’s a quick, rough gesture, and the kid’s so surprised by it (almost more surprised than Jason is), that he doesn’t even punch him in the face. He only takes one step back to stare at him with wide eyes.

“What the hell was that for?”, he sputters, rubbing an arm over his forehead as if to delete the shameful gesture.

Jason stands up carefully and not without pain, listening for the Talon to move again. But the footsteps are gone now, and Damian seems to have already forgotten them.

“Just a reminder”, he answers then, his voice as casual as he can manage, while he adjusts the bags into his arms.

But Damian’s not having any of it and stomps after him when Jason moves towards the car.

“A reminder of what?”, he insists, still more confused than angry. “Todd, are you on drugs? Is this why you left? Father won’t be happy to know that you’re also a junkie, in addition to everything else.”

In spite of everything, even his hurting ribs, Jason finds himself barking out a laugh at those words. He pops the trunk open and puts down the bags.

“I don’t do drugs and you should know that, you little shit.”

The kid comes up in front of him, arms crossed on his chest and thunderstorms in his eyes.

“Then what the hell was that?”, he repeats. “And I want an answer that makes sense this time.”

Jason pauses. He too wants answers that make sense. He wants to know if Dick is a Talon or if there’s a Talon that used to be Dick. He wants to know which one of the two he faced tonight and what was the meaning of that encounter in the first place. He wants for this shitty situation to be solved. He wants his brother back.

“That was a reminder of the fact that you have an older brother who loves you a lot”, he decides then, and whatever answer Damian was expecting, this was not it. To be fair, Jason wasn’t expecting it either. And he still doesn’t know if he wants to believe it. “Now get in the car. You heard what your friend Ettie said: Gotham is a dangerous place at night.”

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

I’m celebrating Batman Day the only way I know how—with a fic round-up!

I’m limiting myself to 16, because that’s how many fics I have, and I like the arbitrariness. (Otherwise I could go for days, because you guys are so incredibly talented.)

Also, this whole list is pretty Jason-heavy, because when people ask me for recs, that’s usually who they specify. But all of the below do the entire BatFam really well!

Bruce Wayne at Walmart by @unpretty - Bruce Wayne experiences Walmart for the first time and brings liberation to workers and fish alike.

The first fic that introduced me to the concept of Bruce Wayne as something other than a slightly smarmy ball of angst.

Cor et Cerebrum by @audreycritter - Bruce learns he has a brain tumor. The collective family adopts a doctor.

I stumbled across this series and fell hard. How hard? This is the fic that 1) truly hooked me on the BatFam, 2) got me reading fanfic, 3) got me writing fanfic. It is my ultimate #writinggoals.

Thanksgiving at the Kents by @starknjarvis27 - The Waynes, the Kents, and one Prince celebrate Thanksgiving and play football.

Hi hello, look at my friend, she is so talented and writes things that make me make undignified noises.

The Gravity of Untempered Grace by @camsthisky - Dick has a late-night health issue. Everyone panics.

I live for updates on this fic. And most everything this person writes, tbh.

Stargazer by @lemonadegarden - Jason and Bruce go on a road trip.

Again, I love all their work, but this one? I freaked out and chucked the Ao3 link at the heads of many, many people.

The Past and Pending by @cerusee - Hiking! With the fam! What could go wrong.

Broken record here, hi, I love EVERYTHING. But this hiking fic for BatFam Week was a ton of fun.

Yellow Submarines by @jerseydevious - Tumblr prompt collections are fun, because you get a good idea of range. Jersey’s covers the entire BatFam, and each fic is a gem.

Random Acts of Kindness by @lananiscorner - Jason! Dick! Damian! Heat waves that I know a little too much about!

Honestly, the level of talent in this fandom is disgusting.

Roles Reversed by @tantalum-cobalt - Baby Bruce and a sick Alfred! 

Gosh, my heart. And you all KNOW I’m picky with how kiddos are written, so extra gold star.

Brunch with Bruce by @preciousthingsareprecious - A sick Dick and concerned Bruce meet for lunch, and it’s great. 

But even more impressive is their Damian fics. He seems like a true ten-year-old boy unlearning toxic assassin behaviors (rather than a cardboard character or a toddler.) So just read their entire catalog.

Batdictionary by @unavenged-robin - This whole series? Brilliant. Monumental.

No One’s Son by @autumnhobbit​ - Jason AU where he isn’t adopted and instead stays with Catherine and Willis but still manages to meet The Fam.

This one made me shriek into the void (and then fling the link at multiple people.)

Childish Things by Drag0nst0rm - Another Jason AU that’s very fix-it.

You really need the one-two punch of both fics in this series. Trust me.

A Motley Little Crew of Dysfunction by MYuzuki - Jason having issues and his siblings being there.

I just binged this one recently and ADORED it.

oh, fiddlesticks by CaptainOzone - Jason is hurt and 100% pulls the sibling card of knowing who to whine in front of and who to beat off.

I cackled.

a hug is worth a thousand words by @second-hand-heaven​ - Bruce hugs hugs hugs hugs

Sometimes it’s nice just to see everyone hug it out.

Also, here are mine, you know, if you need more: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks

[whore4batfam]

Hey moo-moo! I'm stressed, do you have any good fics to recommend?

Yes I do!! And I hope you feel better soon!

Anything by @audreycritter , but especially Foreign Object (A03 profile)

Anything by @autumnhobbit , but especially Dying from the exit wounds (AO3 profile)

Old Haunts and While You See It Your Way by irnan

anything by @lysical , but especially Fly By Night (AO3 profile)

The Man With Guns for Eyes by 8sword

Ensemble Performance by lowflyingfruit

Demonspawn by thegalacticpope

Batdictionary by @unavenged-robin (AO3 profile)

Familiar Scars by @lemonadegarden (AO3 profile)

In a Parallel Life by Firestar385

The Rule Stands and Five Times Dick Grayson Read about Jason Todd in the Newspaper by Engineerd

Salvage by tielan

anything by @incogneat-oh (AO3 profile)

anything by @preciousthingsareprecious but especially Losing You

Support Systems by keeptogethernow

Half Lost, Half Found by takadainmate

Wayne Manor by @unpretty (AO3 profile)

Forts and Stars by kuonji

World, Meet Robin by jerseydevious

Paved With Good Intentions by FinalArc

A Girl’s Gotta Protect Her Reputation by chris dee

anything by @oh-mother-of-darkness , enjoy the masterlist 

The Same Boy by hauntedlittledoll 

Young Jason Drabble by @detective-prettyboy  

basically anything by drakefeathers

Survival by JBMcDragon (that’s right kids livejournal)

The Longer You Stay by emiv

@tantalum-cobalt has good fics, as does @stephaniie-brown , @thelittleredheadedmusician , @komadoriwonder , @disaster-number-1 , @timdrakemockingjay (hi!!), and my dear friend @ambiengrey 

Hope this makes me feel better! (and dang this is a lot of recs)

[ao3feed-timdrake]

Harmony

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2rppi1b

by ShariAruna

Harmony (n) the quality of forming a pleasing and consistent whole

Or the one where Damian is forced to dance with his siblings, Tim is a good brother, and their family is just… nice.

Words: 1767, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Batdictionary

Fandoms: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Batgirl (Comics)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Tim Drake

Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake

Additional Tags: Family Fluff, Underage Drinking, Batfam Week 2017

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2rppi1b

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Batdictionary/蝙蝠词典

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2QvIjIM

by hoika_ng

Abscond (n) to sneak away and hide 潜逃：偷偷溜走并躲藏起来 或者是那个��像鬼亨利和另一个死去的罗宾成为朋友的故事。

(这是个batfam亲情向的系列文，一共16篇，已经要到作者授权，假期会持续翻译，但是更新日期不保证，一切随缘，不会坑。)

Words: 5251, Chapters: 1/16, Language: 中文

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Batgirl (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown

Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Family Fluff, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Short & Sweet, Domestic Fluff, Brotherly Bonding, Hugs, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2QvIjIM

[ao3feed-batcat]

Ephemeral

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2kRZTWk

by ShariAruna

Ephemeral (n) short-lived.

Or the one where Bruce gets to be a husband and a father for a night.

Words: 3885, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Batdictionary

Fandoms: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Talia al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Selina Kyle

Relationships: Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd

Additional Tags: Hallucinations, alternative reality, Light BDSM, bruce’s subconscious is a weird place, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad

read it on the AO3 at http://ift.tt/2kRZTWk

[wishingmyhairred]

Batdictionary

Just added batcave and batmobile to Word dictionary. Saves time on spell check.

[unavenged-robin]

Harmony

Harmony (n) the quality of forming a pleasing and consistent whole 

Or the one where Damian is forced to dance with his siblings, Tim is a good brother, and their family is just… nice.

Batfam Week 2017, Day 3: Wayne Gala

Read on AO3

“You are good”, Cassandra says, and Damian looks up from his feet and scowls at her.

“Liar.”

Cassandra smiles, squeezes Damian’s hand in hers a little bit tighter and suddenly whirls on her toes, forcing the boy to follow her. He stumbles, his fingers slip from her waist, but he stubbornly keeps pace with her, and Cassandra’s grin grows larger.

“Rigid”, she admits. “But good. You’ll learn.”

Damian scoffs, but tries his best to focus on the music and mirror his sister’s steps. He’s not going to admit it to anyone, but he’s not totally hating the annual Wayne Gala as much as he thought he would, nor is he hating his siblings’ company, for that matter - and by his siblings, he mostly means Cassandra, even if she’s the one who dragged him on the dance floor and forced him to waltz with her.

Then again, if he’d been really opposed to it, this wouldn’t be happening at all, and they both know it. Thing is, it feels kind of… nice. The dim lights and the soft music, the echoes of familiar voices in the background and the aftertaste of the champagne he was not supposed to drink in his mouth. Yes, it feels nice. If only a little dizzy. Like a dream.

The music gradually slows down and Damian finds himself resting his head against his sister’s shoulder while they sway on their feet. He feels Cassandra settling her chin on his head and he knows she’s smiling, but he doesn’t mind either gesture because now he can observe the ballroom undisturbed, half hidden in her arms.

He looks at Tim and Stephanie, dancing not far away from them, enclosed in the same half-hug. Well, maybe not exactly the same. Damian has a general grasp of the difference between a sister and a girlfriend, but Tim’s role confuses him (not unlike Tim’s whole existence). Because if Stephanie is Damian’s sister, then Tim can’t be in love with her and she can’t be in love with Damian’s brother. Then again, she would only really be Damian’s sister if one of his brothers married her (or his father decided to adopt her - but to his memory that was the only adoption Bruce always swore against). So now he looks at them and he doesn’t know if he feels grossed out or hopeful about that dance.

His eyes slowly shift to focus on his father and his oldest brother. Sometimes, when the lines blur in his mind, like right now, they are the one and the same. Bruce and Dick are standing close to a wall, talking and laughing with each other, their stances unusually relaxed. It’s good to see them getting along, if only because every time that they fight, Damian feels compelled to take a side. And he never likes the look of betrayal in one’s eyes when he stands with the other. It hurt to choose between his mother and his father, but Dick or Bruce is a choice he simply can’t make.

He can’t see Jason nor Alfred, but he’s pretty sure they’re in the kitchen, drinking tea with a generous amount of whisky in it, if the flask hidden in Jason’s jacket was any indication of his intentions for the evening. It’s something he had difficulties to wrap his mind around at first, the strong influence of a butler on all of them, but time made him understand, and now he’s not surprised that Todd, who claims to be willing to sell all of them off for a hot dog, would decide to attend the gala only to sneak off to spend some time with Alfred.

He looks up at Cassandra when he feels her turning her head around and laugh, and following her line of sight he finds Barbara dancing with a tall, goofy stranger, and for a few moments he follows the weird gestures the two girls use to communicate with each other - a special language developed years and years ago, Cain had explained to him once. He has no idea of what they’re saying, but they’re both laughing, so he imagines that the stranger is the one taking the brunt of their amusement. It better not be Damian in any case.

And it’s still weird, sometimes, to think of them as his family. But some other times that thought too feels nice.

“May I?”

He recognizes the voice immediately, but still jumps at the tap on his shoulder. Looking up to meet Stephanie’s grin Damian berates himself for his wandering thoughts and for not paying better attention to his surrounding. Cassandra is - obviously enough - not surprised in the slightest.

“No”, he answers, without immediately understanding what she means, only on a principle. “You may not.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be a brat”, Stephanie answers, jokingly pulling his ear. “And fyi when someone asks may I in a dance, you just accept it. It’s the etiquette. Didn’t Alfred teach you that?”

“He only made me promise to have fun and not to stab anyone”, Damian answers. “He seems to think the two conditions exclude one another.”

Stephanie has spent enough time with him to recognize a threat, no matter how veiled it is, so she crosses her arms on her chest with an offended pout.

“You’re being mean with no reason, I just wanted a dance with you”, she complains. “Cassie, tell him how mean he is.”

“Mean”, Cassandra agrees, even if she’s clearly amused by the exchange.

“Tt”, Damian answers to both of them. “The wish is not reciprocal, Brown. So go away.”

“Brat. Fine then! I’ll dance with Cassie, and you can have Tim.”

“I don’t want-”

What he wants or not wants it’s obviously beneath Stephanie’s interest, because she plucks him out of Cassandra’s arms and downright throws him backwards. And normally that wouldn’t be enough to make him lose his balance, but tonight his guard is as lower as it can be, so Damian actually falls back.

Tim catches him under his arms just in time to prevent him from landing on his ass. Damian tilts his head back to look at him in surprise and for an awkward moment they just stare at each other like they don’t know how the hell they got in that position in the first place. Then Tim hoists him up, and Damian finds himself on his feet again, a thanks trapped between his teeth.

“That harlot”, he mutters instead, spinning around to look at Stephanie waltzing away with Cass, both laughing. This is the family he knows.

“Hey, come on”, Tim says, catching him again, by his elbow this time, when Damian makes like he wants to lunge after her. “Let’s not make a scene, yes?”

“She pushed me!”

“What are you, te- okay, nevermind”, Tim rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on him. “Come here.”

Damian looks incredulously up at his older brother while Tim adjusts their hands so that Damian’s left one is on Tim’s shoulder and the fingers of his right one are wrapped in Tim’s own.

“Drake. What are you doing”, it’s not even a question. It’s a statement.

Tim only shrugs at him.

“If the girls can dance by themselves so can we. I believe in equal rights”, he says, and then he starts moving his feet in time with the music, dragging Damian with him.

And maybe it’s the seriousness of Tim’s expression, or his matter-of-factly tone of voice, or even the absurd slowness of Damian’s own reflexes that allows his siblings to jostle him around like a- well, like a kid, but whatever it is, Damian burst into laughter at that.

He catches himself almost immediately and slaps a hand against his mouth to suffocate the traitorous sound, but it’s too late and both he and Tim stop and stare at each other with wide eyes for the second time in less than a few minutes.

“It wasn’t…”, Tim starts, looking completely flabbergasted at the idea of Damian laughing at one of his joke. “It wasn’t that funny, you know?”

“Of course it wasn’t funny”, Damian says, but his words comes out muffled from behind his hand, and Tim just stares at him for a few long moments. Then Drake, who prides himself of the title of best detective in the world, second only - and maybe - to the Batman, tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

“Damian, are you... drunk?”, he asks.

“Don’t be absurd, Drake!”, Damian hisses under his breath, but he’s blushing and he’s perfectly aware of it. And by the hearty laugh Tim gives him, his brother has noticed it too.

“Oh my god, that’s precious. Jason?”, he guesses.

Damian scrunches up his nose in regret.

It’s not like he’s drunk drunk. Not like the people he often sees in the streets at night, staggering around and vomiting in the corners of dark alleys. He would never lower himself to that - and he’s positively sure Jason would’ve never let him either. But his head does feel lighter, and his abilities are definitely impaired. And he laughed at Tim’s lame joke. So yes, he’s shamefully drunk. On two flutes of champagne.

“He dared me. And I thought… I’ve always had perfect control of my body and I’m immune to most drugs and poisons, thanks to the League’s training”, he explains quickly, eyes fixed on his feet. “I should have a good resistance to all mind-altering substances. But apparently alcohol is a different matter.”

He hears Tim inhale deeply and waits for the mocks he knows he deserves. He’s surprised when instead his brother sighs and wraps an arm around his shoulder to pull him briefly against his chest.

“You’re such a weird kid”, Tim only comments, one hand running quickly through Damian’s hair.

And at that point, for his own peace of mind, Damian has to ask.

“Drake. Are you drunk too?”, he muses.

The question earns him another laugh and a second hair ruffle.

“No, I’m not. And don’t worry, brat. I won’t tell Bruce that you are.”

Damian resists the urge to ask “really?” and just stares up at his brother while they slowly resume dancing.

“Tt. And why should I believe you?”

“Because that’s what older brothers do, I guess”, Tim answers, smiling indulgently down at him. “They get you drunk and they don’t tell. Or, at least, so I was told.”

Unimpressed by the feeling, Damian just sighs and leans a little more into his brother.

“You are going to use it as blackmail, aren’t you?”

“Yup”, Tim confirms with a grin. “But tonight you’re safe, I promise.”

[unavenged-robin]

Petrichor

Petrichor (n) the smell of earth after rain.

Or the one where they can’t take death seriously anymore (even if it still hurts).

Read on Ao3

He gets the call around 4:00 AM in the morning and almost dislocates his shoulder in the attempt to grab the phone on the nightstand without raising his head from the pillow. Once he sees the name on the screen he’s really tempted to just throw the phone away and go back to sleep. He answers it just because of Dick. A lot of his decisions lately are because of Dick. He doesn’t know why or, at least, he’s never in the right mood to get all introspective and actually find out all the reasons for this new misplaced sense of guilt that’s been affecting him since the day of his brother’s funeral. Like with almost every other thing in his life (and in his death) he just goes with it.

“Hey B.”, he forces himself to answer, keeping his voice purposely rough to make sure Bruce understands he’s bothering him without actually telling it to his face. Baby steps, he supposes.

Bruce doesn’t seem to care about his subtleties anyway, because he only grunts into the speaker of his comm.

“Damian’s missing”, he says, getting straight to the point. He doesn’t add anything, doesn’t even pretend to ask for his help, he just expects it right away.

And a month ago, hell, even a week ago, Jason would’ve answered with something along the line of “and why should that be my problem?” or even a more straightforward “the fuck I care?” and then hung up on him for good measure, but now those words barely flash through his mind while he gets up from the bed and starts looking for his boots.

“Is that a “someone kidnapped him” missing or a “I yelled at him and he stomped away and when I checked his room he wasn’t there and now I can’t find him” missing?”, he asks, knowing that whatever the answers is he’s going to help anyway. Though the first option sounds honestly better to him, at least there would be someone to punch. But Bruce doesn’t answer him, so.

“Okay, the second one then”, he sighs, not surprised at all. “Did he take his bike or one of the cars? Please tell me he didn’t take the jet because I’m honestly not awake enough to fly around the States looking for your son.”

And again, a month ago, hell, even a week ago, Damian taking off to blow some steam on his own wouldn’t have been such a big problem. Rather the contrary, in fact. Often enough giving Damian some space was the best course of action for keeping the good health of everyone involved. But right now the kid is dealing with both his own resurrection and the death of the person he arguably loved more than everything else in the world, his own parent and maybe even his own pets included. Because the shit in their life works like that. Go big or go home it’s the ongoing motto.

“All the vehicles are accounted for”, Bruce answers. “At least all the ones we are aware of. He could have some of his own stashed away somewhere.”

Considering the kid’s passion for whatever motorized thing he could get his little hands on to make it fly or run twice its normal speed, the idea of him having some sort of secret mechanical workshop hidden in the city is not crazy at all. It wouldn’t be a reassuring thought the most of times, and now less than ever.

“But he took off from home on his feet, right?”, Jason asks anyway, hating the way his voice cracks a little around the word home and hoping Bruce’s too distracted to notice. He blames the lack of sleep for that slip of the tongue. And Dick. Alive or not, Dick’s always the one to blame when it comes to family.

“Yes, I believe so”, Bruce’s voice is tired, but Jason’s doesn’t care all that much about it. Knowing him, he’s brought this over his own head (and over Jason’s head too, apparently, and that earns him even less sympathy from him.)

“Anyone else looking?”, Jason asks again, putting on the first more or less clean shirt he finds on the floor.

“Red Robin and Batgirl are on it.”

Jason whistles, picking up his jacket and the bike’s keys.

“Then you can relax, old man. I mean, if we’re not a match for your ten years old we might as well hung up capes, computers and guns once and for all.”

“Mh”, Bruce answers noncommittally. He sounds suspiciously resigned. Like he’s just waiting for the next blow to catch him off guard.

Jason stops with a hand over the door handle, unsure of what to say next.

“C’mon Bruce, it’s Damian”, he tries slowly. “He’s going to be okay, you know?”

“He was Damian last time too”, Bruce reminds him sharply. And one could put Dick or even Jason instead of Damian, and the implications wouldn’t change. It irks him right away, and even if he’s actively trying not to be an ass about this whole thing, he doesn’t have a lot of patience for Bruce to start with.

“Okay, okay”, he returns, voice just slightly annoyed. “Don’t get all batshit now, we’ll find the brat. I’ll call you when I have news.”

He hangs up without a goodbye and just stares at the closed door.

He doesn’t have to do this, it’s not his problem. Sure, he cares about the kid - about the entire family, if he’s going to be honest with himself - there’s no use in denying it after he went over himself to help Bruce get Damian back. And he would do it again. There’s no doubting his help in case of emergency, that’s pretty clear to everyone. But this is not an emergency, this is family drama and he doesn’t have to get involved. Mostly because he knows that getting involved one time is going to set a dangerous precedent, and soon enough he may find himself running around Gotham every time Alfred runs out of milk (not that he would deny Alfred anything if he ever asked, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

He jingles the keys in his fingers for a moment, then he sighs.

Damian’s missing and Jason has to care about it. He blames this too on Dick. He’s pretty sure that now he’ll feel obliged to do the brat’s bidding and endure his outbursts just because of Dick. Because he’s not there to do it anymore. Because he would appreciate if Jason stepped up and took his place. Because there is a heartbroken child wandering alone into the night and Batman is after him (because Jason has no doubt Bruce geared up into his costume and all to go after Damian. It mustn’t have even crossed his mind, the idea to do it as himself, as Bruce Wayne. To just get into one of his expensive cars and go after his son in his pajama and slippers like any other normal father would. It’s one of those thing Bruce just doesn’t get.) (Although, to be fair, this is Damian, so the possibility of ninjas and weird villains and god knows what other unspecified dangers could be happening anyway, but honestly, that’s not how it feels. This feels like a kid’s temper tantrum, one of those crazy things that happen to normal families too. And no, the irony’s not lost on him.)

Jason grabs his helmet and locks the door, and doesn’t even bother to take his guns with him.

*

He calls Tim before starting the bike, just to have a second opinion.

“He called you too, uh?”, he doesn’t sound surprised. To be fair, there are very few things that can truly surprise Tim anymore.

“Yeah. You know how he is”, Jason answers.

They both know how Bruce is. Bruce is focused. Usually on more than just one thing or one person, but lately Damian has understandably stolen all of his attention. Which makes this missing business even more ridiculous, because after all that happened one would expect from Bruce to be a little bit more attentive to Damian’s whereabouts. Like, plant three different tracking devices on him attentive, at least.

Tim sighs in his ear, and he sounds as tired as Jason feels.

“Yeah”, he replies. “Which is why I’d like to find the demon brat as soon as possible and just go back to bed.”

Jason hums in agreement.

“Do you know what they were fighting about?”

Tim hesitates in a way that makes Jason think that yes, he does know, but also that he kind of feels guilty about knowing.

“Timbo?”, he prompts him.

There is another hesitation, longer this time.

“Dick”, Tim finally answers, and the pain is so damn clear in his voice. Damian may have been closer to Dick lately, but Tim had spent half his childhood with him. He was, in a sense, the first real brother Dick ever had, because if he and Dick had to be honest about it, then they’d have to admit that Jason became Dick’s brother in retrospect, when it was too late. Never when he was actually there, because Dick was still young then, and angry. Having been there and done that, Jason doesn’t blame him anymore, but now he wonders if Tim knows it, if he knows how much his presence has reshaped the family dynamic, so that Robin didn’t have to be an only child anymore. Somehow he doubts it.

Jason rubs the bridge of his nose. He’s really happy he was not there to hear the fight between Bruce and Damian. They both could be deadly vicious with their words (other than with their fists and their knives, obviously.)

“Obviously”, he repeats out loud. “Alright, where are you?”

Tim gives him and address and Jason frowns. It’s closer to his territory and that’s not a place where he wants an angry Robin to be wandering around. He hopes Damian’s not anywhere near there, and already regrets leaving his guns behind.

“First one to find him gets to swat him before calling Bruce?”, he dares Tim.

“Nope. If you want to volunteer for being a victim of fratricide that’s your problem”, Tim retorts. “Leave me out of it. I’ve already suffered my fair share.”

“Fine, Red Chicken”, Jason scoffs before hanging up. “You’re no fun at all.”

*

He calls Barbara and Alfred too, just to know which territories have already been covered. He doesn’t bother with Bruce because he’s pretty sure he’s doing a recog of the whole Gotham and trying to talk him out of it would be a waste of time.

In the end Jason happens to know just a little bit more than the rest of them about daddy issues, dead children and dead children coming back to life, and that’s probably why he finds him first. He doesn’t even have to look that hard or drive too far away. Only to the Manor’s and, more specifically, to the Manor’s cemetery.

Damian’s right there, sitting on Dick’s tombstone. He’s wearing his pajamas, mudded bare feet dangling above the ground. If it wasn’t the middle of the night, if this wasn’t a cemetery, and if this wasn’t Damian, it would look like a little kid mindlessly taking a break in the middle of a playground.

Instead there’s a child sitting on his brother’s grave, and around him there are his other brother's, his father’s and even his own empty tombs. Jason has no doubt that if Damian had the power to chose which grave should be empty and which one full, he would be a goner. It’s not a fair thought, but Jason rarely gets fair things, so he’s not ashamed of it too much.

He kills the bike and walks slowly towards the kid. He can’t believe Bruce never thought of checking here. No, he must have looked around, and Damian probably just had kept himself hidden from his father. Not that Jason can blame him for that - and not like Jason didn’t use to do exactly the same thing himself when he was Damian’s age (both with Bruce and his real father).

The cobblestone-covered path crackles under his boots as he walks, wet grass making it slippery and squeaky. Damian’s looking down at his hands and he doesn’t acknowledge Jason when he approaches him, even if there’s no way he didn’t notice him.

Jason, for his part, doesn’t really know what to do now that he has found the brat. He should probably just call Bruce and leave, but that doesn’t feel right. He’s not so eager about picking a fight with the kid either, though, which is where any attempts at conversation is going to land him. But he’s not here to fight. There’s going to be scolding and heartfelt conversations about not leaving home in the middle of the night when everyone’s already so alarmed that they could start fucking ringing or howling like sirens at any little thing, but Jason’s not the one who’s gonna do any of it. And if Bruce’s half as smart as he thinks he is, he’ll not say a word either. Those kind of things are mostly Alfred’s job anyway. Used to be Dick’s too, but eh.

So Jason sits down on Damian’s own grave, his back against the tombstone, so he can still face the kid. He doesn’t say hello, doesn’t even try to attract his attention. Gives him the choice on when, how and on what basis their conversations should start.

The silence between them is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Definitely familiar. Jason remembers a night spent at Dick’s apartment, both of them sitting on Dick’s old couch. He was reading a book, Damian was playing on his phone, Tim and Dick were easily chatting in kitchen. This quiet feels a bit like that, just colder. And wetter. And lonelier.

He feels something crawl on the back of his hand and swats it away without even looking at it. For some reasons this seems to attract Damian’s attention.

“Why did you kill it?”, Damian asks, looking at him for the first time since he arrived. “It was only a firefly.”

And now Jason can see that there is a firefly in Damian’s cupped hands too, or at least that’s what the faint light between his fingers seems to suggest. He straightens his back and meets the kid’s gaze with his own. He thinks about his question for a moment, then just shrugs.

“I don’t care for bugs”, he answers honestly.

Damian tilts his head at him.

“Why?”, he asks again. He looks mildly curious, which is a good thing. Only a little weird.

Jason shrugs again.

“Same reason you don’t care for reptiles, I suppose.”

Damian scrunches up his nose at that.

“Snakes are between the deadliest animals in the world”, he retorts. “Some of them can shoot venom up to six feet with better accuracy than yours, not that it would be difficult to best you on that regard”, a little pause. “Beside, they slither”, he adds with a disgusted grimace.

Jason does his best not to laugh.

“Well, bugs are gross”, he offers in return.

And they eat corpses, but he’s not gonna say that with Dick six feet under them. Let’s not give the kid new materials for his nightmares.

Damian doesn’t seem to think “gross” an adequate excuse for killing fireflies, but Jason’s not going to push it. They all have their weird little things, and he’d rather not tell Damian horror stories about dead kids crawling out of their graves at night, digging into the mud under the rain and feeling worms and maggots and god knows what else between the fingers. He’s not going to tell him that that night smelled exactly like this one.

“Your dad’s looking for you”, he says instead, because at some point they’d have to address the topic of a giant, worried Bat scurrying the streets of Gotham in search of his offspring anyway.

Damian curls his fingers and his toes but otherwise keeps a pretty decent facade of indifference.

“I know.”

Almost no feeling behind those words too. Yes, the kid’s getting really good at the emotionally constipated thing. He wants to make a joke about Dick turning in his grave, but he stops himself in time. Why has his mind to be so fucking morbid he’ll never understand. He focuses back on Damian, who’s trying really hard not to look like a ten years old in dire need of a hug. He’s failing.

“He’s not angry”, Jason offers, even though he doesn’t know if that’s true or not. He hopes it is, though.

“No, he’s never angry”, Damian unexpectedly agrees. “Only disappointed.”

Jason’s heart kind of falls into the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know how to answer to that. It’s too personal, the feelings hit too close to home. He can’t say I know, he doesn’t want to say it. He’s not ready to have this conversation with someone else, much less with Damian, who’s arguably the brother most similar to him. First, because Jason’s trying so hard, for his own peace of mind, not to make comparisons between them since the day Damian died, and second, because he can’t let the kid count the similarities and make dangerous equations about them. Can’t let him see a Red Hood in his future instead of a Nightwing.

That’s why Dick should be the one giving speeches about father-son relationships. That’s also why Dick should go fuck himself, ectoplasm and all.

Damian’s line of thoughts must have been wandering in a similar direction because, while Jason is still gaping and looking for something to say that’s not a death joke or worse, the kid just sighs and bites the inside of his cheek.

“I miss him”, he whispers, like it’s a secret, or an admission of guilt.

And at least there’s an easy answer to this, Jason thinks.

“I know, kiddo. Me too.”

They both speak in a quiet tone, but their voices are steady. On the outside there’s no way for someone different from their family to actually see how deep the scar is, or how much it hurts.

All of this would be a lot more simple for both of them if Damian just cried. At least Jason would know what to do. He would get up from his wet spot on the grass and hug him. Not that he’s good with tears or hugs, and even less with children, but a crying child is something in the realm of things he comprehend. Like grieving. Like missing someone so much you can barely breathe.

It would be oh so nice if they could do something - this, at least - like a normal family. But they are not normal, and if they ever were Jason doesn’t remember it.

Part of the reason they’re all so fucked up about this must be because this is not something new anymore. They have lost a brother before. A father. A son. They have all lost comrades and friends and lovers. It’s part of the job. And at some point it didn’t… well, it didn’t stop the hurt, of course, because the hurt was always there, but. It stopped the surprise. Because how else could have it ended if not like this? And what’s the point of crying about something that was inevitable from the start?

So crying is not how they do things. They get angry, they fight, they train until their bodies are spent and sleep comes to them as a survival mechanism and nothing more. The only people in their life allowed to vocalize their pain are the criminals unfortunate enough to find themselves between a grieving vigilante and his denial while they just go on with the show.

Until, of course, they get stuck in a cemetery with a child still too young to know the rules of a game no one wants to explain.

Jason runs a hand through his hair, wishing for a beer. Damian just looks at him from under his lashes, mouth twisted in a pout. He knows what’s going to happen next.

“I need to call the others, Little D”, Jason warns him anyway.

Damian shrugs.

“I know.”

Jason sighs again.

*

Tim’s the first one to join them. He looks at Damian, still sitting on Dick’s gravestone, then at Jason, still leaning against Damian’s, and to his credit he just raises an eyebrow at them.

“Is this some sort of inside joke?”, he asks, staring down at them with his arm crossed over his chest. He doesn’t look tired or angry as he sounded before on the phone, in fact he looks rather amused, if Jason’s reading his posture correctly.

“Inside game, actually”, he answers then, making it up on the spot because why not. “You have to sit on a grave that is not yours.”

Damian blinks at him, then frowns uncertainly. Tim, bless his soul, just goes with it.

“Well, that should be easy”, he answers almost cheerly. “I don’t have a grave here.”

“Yet”, Damian replies, but if the child’s intent was to sound ominous or threatening he fails miserably. His own voice betrays him, giving his word a sad undertone. Tim must have detected it because he only scoffs back at him.

“Yeah, thanks for the memento mori, brat. I’ll take this one, then”, Tim says, sitting gingerly on Jason’s grave.

“Aww, I knew I was your favorite, Timbo”, Jason jokes, shifting position and circling his knees with his arms.

“Does that mean that Damian’s yours?”, Tim returns.

No need to ask Damian about his favorite brother. Jason notices he still grips his fingers around the edges of the marble stone beneath him, almost as challenging them to question his right to claim Dick’s grave for himself. Like they ever would.

“Well, I do feel like we have a lot of things in common”, he answers anyway. “Nice hair, a lifelong passion for knives, we both tried to kill you-”

“Very funny”, Tim grumbles.

“I consider myself offended by that”, Damian retorts at the same time. “My hair is definitely better than yours.”

Jason laughs, cocks his head to the side with an amused glare.

“My, my, are we already fashionably aware?”

Damian points his eyes at him like one would point guns.

“Well, someone in this family has to be.”

Tim snorts, and by doing so he automatically gives the win to Damian. The traitor.

Well aware of his victory, the child smirks smugly, and Jason can’t help but smile himself. He feels lighter and honestly relieved at how easily the banter still comes to them. Even now, even here.

The smile stays on Damian’s face for all of five seconds, then it crumbles down in a cringe, and that’s how Jason realizes that Bruce catched up with them. He follows Damian’s gaze and sure enough he can spot Batman’s unmistakable silhouette moving towards them. He looks back at Tim to give him a silent warning, but his brother is already focused on Bruce too, expression unreadable as always.

Jason turns his head again to watch Bruce slowly approaching them and frowns. He doesn’t know how he would react if Bruce and Damian started arguing in front of him, and he’s not eager to find out. So he waits for him to come closer and then he raises a hand and waves it in a show of no-hostility.

“Hello B.”, he greets him.

Bruce tilts his head in acknowledgment and just stares at their little circle from behind the cowl. He doesn’t look angry or ready to start a lecture, and Jason thanks god for small mercies.

“Can I sit down?”, he only asks after a moment.

“Sure. Just not on your own grave”, Jason answers.

“It’s tonight’s game”, Tim explains while Damian does his best to ignore all of them (an art he’s really well versed in, thanks to months of strenuous practice).

Bruce accepts it without so much as a raised eyebrow. He walks around them and looks at both of his parent’s graves before deciding to sit down in front of his father’s tombstone, if only because it’s the one closer to them or to follow some kind of messed up logic, Jason doesn’t know and he’s not gonna ask.

They ought to make a weird sight, though, Batman sitting in the mud, Red Robin crouched next to him, Jason in his civilian clothes sitting cross-legged in front of them, and Damian in his pajamas perched on a gravestone in the middle of their group. Jason wonders if he should take a photo for Alfred’s Bonding Moments Scrapbook. He’s ready to bet it wouldn’t even be the weirdest one in there.

“You know, I think we should have a grave for Timmy too”, he says out of the blue, because clearly Tim’s not going to talk first and Bruce and Damian are just as clearly trying to ignore each other’s presence like they weren’t the reason for this peculiar family meeting in the first place.

“Hey!”, Tim protests.

“...Jason”, Bruce sighs.

Jason smirks, crosses his arms behind his head and leans against the tombstone until he finds a comfortable position. Tim just narrows his eyes at him, already familiar enough with his quirks to know that this is not just a casual comment but it’s going to turn into a thing.

“I just don’t want him to feel, you know, cut off from the family or something”, Jason continues, keeping his tone as casual as he knows how.

“I’m perfectly fine without having a grave, thank you very much.”

“Ah, but we all already have a metaphorical grave waiting for us while we are alive. Some are just less metaphorical than others.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to keep mine totally metaphorical for as long as I can, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind a little. Like, I am this close to feel personally offended.”

“I’m not getting myself a grave just to indulge your issues, Jay.”

“Are you cold?”, Bruce asks, interrupting their conversations with a low murmur, and Jason and Tim immediately pause. The question is obviously directed to Damian, who for the last minutes has done nothing but watching his bare feet. Even now he doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at them. Just barely nods.

“We could go home”, Bruce hums. Jason notices the obvious effort to put it as a suggestion, not as a request and definitely not as an order.

“It’s almost morning”, Tim adds gently, when Damian doesn’t answer. “I’m pretty sure Alfred’s making breakfast right now.”

Jason’s pretty sure that Tim’s going to be a good brother to Damian too, eventually. After all he learned how to be a brother from Dick, and Dick’s always been a good teacher. The kid just needs to give him a chance, and Tim just needs to take it. It’s a comforting thought. Not that he’s gonna share it.

“And I’m pretty sure that when you say Alfred’s making breakfast you’re just thinking about the coffee”, he replies instead.

“Jason, coffee is breakfast.”

“Uh, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you but-”

“Damian?”, Bruce interrupts them again.

Finally, Damian looks up at them. And it’s not easy to read him, he looks still kind of surprised that Bruce’s not yelling at him, and he also looks guilty and uncertain and like he doesn’t want to leave the last connection he has with Dick, like there is a much bigger decision here to be taken, one they can not even start to comprehend.

Or maybe Jason’s just projecting and Damian’s only sleepy.

“Do you want to go home?”, Bruce asks softly.

Damian’s fingers linger on the marble, absently tracing its edges.

“...Yes”, he decides in the end.

He slides down from the gravestone and back on his feet.

Bruce stands up too, quickly followed by both Jason and Tim.

“Good”, Batman only says, then he walks towards Damian and offers him his hand.

Father and son look at each other for a second, and whatever their fight was about, it’s pretty clear that everything is forgiven and forgotten, even if no one’s gonna say sorry. Jason tries really hard not to be jealous about that.

“And I’m in favor of Drake getting a grave”, Damian adds in a chirp, taking his father’s hand.

Bruce hums noncommittally and scoops him up into his arms. Damian promptly wraps his arms around his neck, settling into his hold.

“And I’m in favor of giving you up for adoption”, Tim answers serenely, with no heat at all.

Jason just laughs and puts an arm around his brother’s shoulders as they follow their father home.

[unavenged-robin]

Ephemeral

Ephemeral (n) short-lived.

Or the one where Bruce gets to be a husband and a father for a night.

Read on AO3

He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the cave. His head is spinning, his hands are trembling around the wheel, everyone’s screaming at him.

We thought you were better than this, his mother says.

You made a promise to us, is this how you keep it?, his father asks.

Bruce grits his teeth, doesn’t answer. Fighting with the dead is never a good idea, they have nothing else to lose, so they always win.

He stumbles out of the car as soon as it stops, he meets the cave floor with his hands and not with his face just out of a combination of good reflexes and sheer instinct.

That’s pathetic, Damian comments, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

Give him a break, kiddo, Dick scolds him. He’s getting old.

Old, Cassandra repeats with a knowingly tone.

“Shut up”, Bruce growls, propping himself up on his elbows. The walls of the cave catch his voice and send back echoes of it at him, taunting him. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

You shut up, old man, Jason retorts. I’m not above kicking you while you’re already down, you know.

Bruce, the poison is acting faster, Tim butts in, always the voice of reason. You need to find the antidote now.

“I know”, Bruce replies with another growl. It’s a lie. He had forgotten about the poison. Just for a moment.

He raises his head, looking for his children. They may not always be on the best of terms, but they would always help him in a crisis. He knows that.

He’s alone.

Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone. Flew the nest long time ago. Dick has his own city, Tim his own life, Jason his own battles. Bruce never really had a choice with them. As for Cassandra and Damian, well. Cass had always done her thing, and Damian’s just starting to understand what is like not to have a destiny, what life tastes of when you can shape its course and not just follow orders. Bruce’s choosing to let them go.

Right, Damian snorts, leaning towards the computer’s console and looking at him trying to get back on his feet. Because otherwise you would definitely have a say in what I decide to do, Father.

Be nice, Little D, Dick cuffs him lightly on the back of his head.

Yeah, kid, don’t you see he’s dying? Show some respect for the fucking dead, Jason snickers.

You are gonna die if you don’t act quickly, Bruce, Tim agrees. Cassandra only hums.

“I know”, Bruce repeats. His head feels light, his legs are not working correctly. He knows he has an antidote somewhere, but he has to force his mind into focussing on remembering where and what it looked like. He wonders where Alfred is, and if he’s going to find him in time.

He blacks out somewhere between the car and the stairs.

*

He wakes up in a bed, surrounded by darkness. He barely has the time to recognize his own bedroom, then both body memory and instincts set in and he’s running towards the bathroom before he even realizes his stomach is turning inside out.

He throws up on white marbles and fine porcelain indiscriminately. Alfred is going to be mad at him even if he’s not going to say it. Normally he would clean up after himself but he feels hot, like he has a fever, and he feels weak, weaker than he’s been in years.

You don’t look good, beloved, a woman’s voice agrees.

Bruce raises his head and Talia’s there, standing in front of the sink, long red dress and bare feet, leaning towards the mirror, a tube of mascara in her hand.

Perhaps we should cancel the dinner, I’m sure the Major will understand.

She does her eyes slowly and with great care, mouth slightly open, lips as red as her dress. The bracelets on her wrists jingle everytime she moves, and she looks so beautiful and so real Bruce has to run away from her.

His bedroom is still dark, but he can see a lump on his bed. Selina blinks back at him from under the linen sheets and she yawns and stretches in that cat-like way she does everything.

‘Morning darling, where were you?, she smiles.

Bruce sways on his feet, reaching for the wall for support. Closes his eyes, tries to separate reality from hallucinations.

It’s not easy.

The click of the light switch and a hand on his shoulder makes him turn. In the soft light of their bedroom Talia looks at him with concern in her eyes.

Bruce, do you want me to call a doctor?, she asks.

Bruce looks back at the bed, but it’s empty now. Selina’s gone. He notices other things, though. A wedding ring on the nightstand. Woman clothes on the chair. An open box of jewelry on the dresser.

“I’m fine”, he answers.

Talia looks at him dubiously, but she doesn’t insist.

He watches her sitting down and start brushing her hair, and suddenly he remembers hundreds of nights just like this one, getting ready for dinners and parties, and how she would always let him choose the necklace to go with her outfit.

(His parents used to this, Bruce remembers. And his father always chose pearls. Said he just loved them so much. It drove his mother crazy sometimes, but she would always wear them when he asked, because she loved him so much.)

He moves towards the jewelry box to indulge into their ritual one more time, but then he hears the laughing of a child and the sound of tiny bare feet running on old, polished wood. He remembers this too, and he knows it’s Damian even before the toddler barges in the room. It was only three weeks ago when Damian took his first walk without their help, but now he’s already running around the manor, giving heart attacks to everyone.

“Mama, mama!”, he screams.

Talia immediately turns towards her son and catches him with a laugh, scooping him up in her arms and spinning him around, making him giggle in that bubbling way that never ceases to amaze Bruce.

Damian is such a cute baby too, all chubby cheeks and big blue eyes, and Bruce knows that every parent says so, but he’s secretly convinced that his son is the most beautiful child in the entire world.

(He knows what Damian looked like as a baby because Talia showed him a photo, once. Refused to give it to him when he asked, told him he didn’t deserved it, that Damian’s childhood was hers, and hers alone.)

“Sorry, little guy’s faster than I expected”, another known voice says.

Jason looks at them from the doorframe, an indulgent smile on his lips. He’s sixteen - seventeen at most - all long hair and clothes getting too short for him day by day. He’s growing tall, almost can look his father straight in the eyes. Bruce doesn’t like that.

(Bruce never saw Jason at sixteen. He only knows the child and the man, not what was in between. Teenager Jason belonged to Talia too.)

“It’s okay”, Talia says, Damian still wriggling on her lap. “I wanted to give him a goodnight kiss anyway.”

Damian babbles something at her and keeps playing with her hair. He’s fascinated with her earrings but by now he knows better than to try and pull them. Talia smiles down at him and cradles him closer so she can pepper his little face with big, smacking kisses, making him squeal in delight.

“If I tried that he would pull all my hair off, the little demon”, Jason huffs, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the fondness in his voice.

Talia only grins and gestures for him to come closer. When Jason comes standing beside her she stands up and brushes a kiss on his cheek, making him blush.

“Thank you for babysitting him tonight, Jason”, she says, handing Damian over to him.

“It’s fine”, he dismisses her. “I really don’t mind.”

Jason takes the child easily, with the familiarity coming from years of experience. Damian settles in his arms with the same confidence, and as if on a cue, he reaches for Jason’s hair and pulls, loving the sound of his big brother’s yelping.

(No white-streak in Jason’s hair, Bruce notices. This Jason has never died, this Jason grew up here, in this house, with loving parents and a bunch of brothers who refused to leave him alone. This Jason is happy.)

*

His heartbeat is slowing too much. Bruce is usually able to control it and adjust his body function accordingly, but now he’s too weak to fight both the poison and his heart’s mutiny.

That’s why he has Alfred, he supposes, as he watches his old friend moving around him with not so much as a frown. He’s always envied that calm.

You weren’t there, he tries to say, but Alfred shushes him like he would with a child.

In my other life, you were the only one missing.

He doesn’t know if he’s speaking or only thinking those words because he can’t tell the difference between the two things anymore. Speaking and thinking. Reality and hallucinations. Fears and hopes. Nightmares and dreams.

Alfred doesn’t answer anyway. Just strokes his cheek with his hand the way he used to do when Bruce was a kid.

Long, long time ago.

*

He’s blind.

He can’t move his hands, he can’t speak.

(By now his blood has completely absorbed the toxin, so the effect of the poison must have reached its peak, Bruce reasons. It’s going to take an hour or a little less from the last inoculation for the antidote to start to work, but it’s going to be a long, long hour.)

He’s not alone.

He feels lips on his chest, hands on his hips. Can’t feel his arms or his own face, but he knows there’s a rope tied around both of his wrists and a piece of something soft and expensive covering his eyes.

“Surprise”, a woman’s voice whispers, soft and full of laugh.

It could be Selina, or Jezebel, or Talia, and Bruce hates that he can’t tell them apart. He should be able to. In another life he would be able to.

“We need to celebrate, Bruce.”

Celebrate what?, he wants to asks, but he can’t speak. He bites down on the piece of leather between his teeth, tries to imagine himself right now, naked and blind and tied up to his own bed, completely defenseless. Thrown at the mercy of the woman he loved (Selina, Jezebel, Talia) and who loved him back (maybe, and not really, and once upon a time).

“Love it’s the best way to die, don’t you think, darling?”, she says.

Warm fingers make him arch and moan and fight against the bonds that force him to suffer this assault without being able to to defend himself or attack back. And he likes it. He loves it. The complete lack of control. The trust. Because he trusts her (them) in a way he never considered possible. In a way that was never possible before.

(Before what?)

There are teeth against his neck and he thinks he recognizes Talia’s mouth, but then long, sharp nails come down scratching his shoulders, and that’s Selina’s way to touch him. Kisses and bites and whispered words in his ears, and he doesn’t know anymore, and he likes the idea of not knowing too.

She tortures him for an hour or a little less.

Then he dies.

Finally.

(Something’s beeping in the distance. Someone’s talking. It’s all white noise, though. He really doesn’t have the strength to pay attention to it. He’s a dead man, he has nothing else to lose now.)

*

The white flash of a sunbeam hits his closed eyes and Bruce jolts wide awaken. He didn’t even know he was sleeping. There are voices around him, all raised in excitement. But it’s not fear. Nothing bad is coming.

The door of his bedroom swings wide open with a little bang of expensive brass knocking against equally expensive wood, and a reproach automatically comes to his mouth, but before he can speak another voice beats him on the spot.

“I’m home!”

And Bruce smiles, scratched furniture completely forgotten. It’s some sort of reflex when Dick’s around.

“Dick”, he calls, standing up to welcome his oldest son.

“In flesh and blood”, Dick grins, as he spins on his heels and bows his head. “Ta-da!”

Bruce laughs and hugs him to his chest hard, like he’s never letting go, and Dick hugs him back with equal determination.

(There were discussions with this Dick too, Bruce knows that much. Shouting matches and weeks of silence, lots of angry words that were never supposed to be spoken. But this Dick never left this house slamming the door behind him. This Dick always knew that Bruce was his father and that he loved him.)

“How’s college?”, Bruce asks after a moment, slowly untangling himself from the hug.

“Good. Not as hard as you pictured it and not as easy as I hoped”, Dick answers, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Nothing I can’t fix”, he adds quickly when Bruce frowns. “I just need a little time to adjust.”

Bruce opens his mouth to offer him his help, but in that moment a delighted screech pierces his ear.

“Dick!”, Cassandra shouts, smiling and showing off her new shiny braces.

“Hey princess!”, Dick shouts back, turning towards his sister and opening up his arms.

Cass doesn’t need further invitations, and she launches himself into his brother’s embrace. She barely comes up to Dick’s chest, but that’s never been a problem for his oldest son. Bruce watches them spinning around the room three times, laughing like crazy, and then the rest of the flock appear on his door.

“Welcome home, Richard”, Talia greets him, Jason and Tim at her side. In her arms Damian squeals happily, reaching for Dick, who reaches right back at him with a big smile, Cassandra still pressed into his side, and Talia promptly holds out the baby for him.

Dick picks Damian up with one arm, fist-bump Jason with his free hand and kisses Tim’s forehead when the kid wraps himself around his waist.

“Hello, family. I’ve missed you”, he laughs, and he’s clearly so happy to see them that Bruce’s heart hurt a little. But it’s not a bad kind of hurt and he approaches the little group from behind, absently ruffling Tim’s hair before placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

He looks at Damian, who’s sitting on Dick’s hip, making grabby hands at his face.

“Dada”, he calls him, trying to reach his hair.

“No”, Dick laughs. “I’m not your dada.”

“Dada”, Damian insists.

“Well, okay then. Whatever you say, little guy”, Dick yields, then he tilts his head and submits himself to Damian’s vicious hairpulling, much to Tim’s disdain.

“You really shouldn’t let him do that”, the kid protests, frowning and looking remarkably like Bruce in doing so, even if he’s only eight years old.

“I know, I know”, Dick answers with a sigh, but he doesn’t do anything to stop his baby brother who, for his part, just keeps pulling his hair calling him dada, dada with genuine contentment.

Dick doesn’t try to correct him again, so Bruce pulls a face and Talia laughs. She knows he’s jealous, and it’s easy for her to laugh it off. Damian never calls anyone else mama but everyone except Tim is dada. Bruce, Dick, Jason, sometimes even Clark, when he comes visiting. There is really no difference for Damian.

Bruce’s suspicion is that Damian does it on purpose. They all find it so cute when he calls them dada, so they’re all incapable of refusing him anything when he addresses them like that, and Bruce thinks that’s exactly why Damian doesn’t bother with using their real names, even though he knows them very well by now. Then again, Damian is only fourteen months old and maybe Bruce is reading too much into it.

(He and Dick never talked about it, and Damian would deny there’s even something to talk about. But Bruce remembers the first time he saw them together, remembers how his first thought was that Damian looked different from how he remembered him. A lot less like him, a lot more like Dick. It was a crazy thought, but also a legitimate one. After all he knows better than anyone else that fatherhood doesn’t have anything to do with blood.)

*

“Master Bruce?”

“Mh?”

“Would it be too much of an inconvenience for you to wake up?”

“Mh.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wake up anyway.”

“Mh.”

He keeps dreaming.

*

Lowered head, tensed shoulders, fingers pressed against his eyelids. He must look like a living dead. Which is fair. The migraines are killing him.

The floor creaks under familiar footsteps, and when he raises his head from the work on his desk, Cassandra is sitting on the floor of his bedroom, fighting with the ribbons of her pointe shoes.

“Need space”, she only says, and Bruce doesn’t protest. He knows she loves to dance in a lot of strange places and he’s not surprised to learn that his bedroom is one of them.

“Do you also need the stereo?”, he asks. She shakes her head no, and again, he’s not surprised at all. Cassandra is the only one of his children who shares his love for silence. She could do anything without emitting a sound, from running to dancing. It’s quite disturbing sometimes, but he tries not to let her know.

(But she does know. Always. Even - especially - without words. That’s probably why she understands him better than her brothers.)

The quiet lasts all but five minutes, then Tim gently knocks on the door, shy smile and big eyes hidden behind a mop of hair.

“Hi. Sorry”, he starts, then he bits his lips. “Are you busy? If you aren’t, can you help me with my homeworks?”

And Bruce smiles because yes, that’s something he can always do. Would always do. Be there for them, take care of problems too big for his children.

(If only they would let him do so.)

“Of course”, he answers, pushing away the papers from his desk to make space for Tim’s math book.

He spends the entire afternoon that way, with a migraine threatening to split his head in two, Tim sitting on his lap, and Cassandra dancing quietly around them.

(This Tim shouldn’t be here, he knows that. He had parents, and a home, and Bruce had no right to call him his son, not back then. Same goes for Cassandra. “Father” at this age was a word for another man, not a good one, but still not Bruce. They all came to him through tragedies and heartaches, but a dream is a dream is a dream. He’ll remember this as one of the nicest day-that-never-happened he ever had.)

*

It’s morning. A new dawn’s shining over Gotham, and Bruce is alone again, standing in the wet grass. The side effects of the poison are getting weaker by the hours, the antidote worked. The fever is almost gone, the headache is still there, but he’s healing faster than expected, so he’s not going to complain too much.

The new day didn’t take all remnants of the night away from him, though. If he closes his eyes he can still see them. Dreams or hallucinations, he can’t really say anymore, but they were real for a few hours. Few hours worth a lifetime.

He feels Alfred approaching more than hearing him.

“You should be in bed, Master Bruce”, he only says.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Sorry, Alfred. I needed to get out of there.”

Too many people in that bedroom, he wants to say, and he could actually say it. As crazy as it’d sound, Alfred would understand it in his usual mysterious, sort-of-omniscient way.

But Bruce just doesn’t want to share it. Not yet.

*

It’s night again, and he’s wandering the halls of his own house like a ghost. Patrol is out of question at least for a few days, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself in the meanwhile. So he walks. And he listens. There are always a lot of noises in old houses, and Wayne Manor is a very normal house on that regard.

The creaks of old wood and the ticking of the ancient clocks. Tree branches brushing against the windows, the distant calls of the owls hunting, and then something else. Feeble whimpers behind a closed door.

Bruce stops in his tracks and frowns. The hallucinations should be totally gone by now, his blood is clean, is head is finally clear. Even the migraines are gone.

He sighs and opens the door of Damian’s room anyway. Real or not, he could never turn his back on a child crying alone in the dark.

And Damian’s right there, of course. Holed up under the covers, tiny fingers gripping the sheets as hard as he knows how. He’s older now. Four, maybe five years old, blue eyes round with fear, his bottom lip is trembling, and tears are obviously on their way.

“There’s a monster under the bed, daddy”, he whispers to him, and Bruce knows it’s true. Knows what it looks like too. Because there’s always a Batman to a Bruce Wayne, and hallucinated worlds make no exception. It makes sense that he would refuse to be set aside and forgotten, even if only for a night.

He sits on the bed and carefully strokes the child’s cheek in attempt to reassure him. He’s not good with it, even if he should be. After all he’s seen this Damian’s birth, he was there through all his life. His first laugh, his first word, his first steps, his first day of school.

(Never for his first kill, or for the first blow that showed him what happens when you are not up to expectations.)

He helped changing diapers and singing lullabies, soothing temper tantrums and kissing scratched knees better. He was there for all the little things, bedtime stories and night terrors and the first time in the snow. He taught him how to ride a bike and how to tie his shoes, how to count up to ten and how to write his own name.

(How to disarm a man three times bigger than him, what bones are easier to break and what spots hurts the most when hit in a fight.)

Damian looks up at him, scared and defenseless, and the only thing he can think about is that Damian never called him daddy and he never would, not even under torture.

This Damian is Bruce’s son, not Batman’s.

...and Bruce doesn’t know what to say to him.

So he doesn’t say anything.

He closes his eyes, feeling a little guilty, and when he reopens them the bed is empty. His Damian was never there.

Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone.

Not too far away, though, he thinks with a smile.

He can always visit.

And most importantly, they can always come back.

[unavenged-robin]

Hiraeth

Hiraeth (n) Homesickness, or an intense longing for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

Or the one where Jason angsts a lot over Bruce's father skills and ends up volunteering himself to carry a sleeping Damian to bed.

Read on AO3

-

It's a private moment, so intimate that Bruce's not even willing to share it with the sleeping child he's holding in his arms, not really. Because Damian won't know about any of this. Won't know about the kisses and the caresses, and the gentle nuzzles, and the careful way his father holds him against his chest, the protectiveness in his eyes, the little smile on his lips while he watches him sleep.

It's a private moment, and definitely not something meant for Jason to see, but being in the wrong place at the wrong time is kinda the story of Jason's life, and so here he is, standing in the dark hallway of a house where he doesn't belong anymore, watching a father that he lost a lifetime ago holding a brother that he can't really claim as his own.

And it hurts.

It hurts even if it's unfair on his part, because Damian deserves this, deserves a father that holds and cuddles and cherishes him, and yeah, it would do a lot more good to both of them if said father did all of that while Damian was awake, but Jason thinks they're getting there. It only took four fucked up sons and the death of two of them, but they're getting there. And just because it's too late for him (and for Dick, and for Tim) it doesn't mean that Damian shouldn't have it.

As a matter of fact, Jason's all for giving the brat all of it: a caring father, an adoring older brother, a dysfunctional family ready to go to hell and back in order to bring him home. Because Jason may not be good at this family thing – like, at all – but he wants to watch Damian grow up too, possibly a little less fucked up than the rest of them – although that may be asking for too much, given the kid's family, himself included.

So yeah, he doesn't resent Damian one bit for this, yet it still hurts.

It hurts even if it shouldn't, because Bruce is almost nothing to him now. Gone are the days when he thought of him as a father, gone is the burning anger, and even the betrayal. Jason doesn't know what's left of them nowadays, but whatever it is, it shouldn't be enough to make something inside his stomach turn into stone. It shouldn't be enough to make him feel like this.

It's just– it's the way Bruce holds him. Like a sacred thing. Like the entire world could collapse on itself and it would mean nothing to him because everything important is already safe in his arms. It's the way Bruce looks at him, like a miracle – and it is a miracle, it's been months since they got Damian back and it still feels like a goddamn miracle – and it's alright, it's great, it's how it should've always been, and that's the point. Because he never knew that Batman – the Batman – could do something like this. Because if Bruce had ever looked at Dick like that, it was long before Jason was part of their life, and if he had ever hold Tim like that, it was long after Jason was out of it. As for Jason himself, well, he's not opening that can of worms, not even mentally.

He doesn't notice Bruce raising his head until it's too late, and even then, for some reason, Jason doesn't have the presence of mind to look away. He meets Bruce's eyes with his own, and he doesn't know who's more surprised between the two of them to be caught like this, with their defenses so lowered and their scars so vividly exposed for the other to see. So Jason takes a step back, ready to disappear in the darkness, offering his not-father a silent and very generous I won't say anything about any of this if you don't, but then Bruce does the unthinkable and smiles at him. Like, actually smiles at him. Like, with fondness. Oh my god.

“Hi.”

It's a good thing Jason is still too startled to answer, because he feels like the only words his panicking mind could produce right now would probably be along the line of fuck you, Bruce. Old habits die harder than him and all of that.

“Everything alright?”, Bruce inquires after a moment, which is probably his polite way of asking what the hell Jason is doing here at the manor.

“Mh”, Jason grunts affirmatively, which is definitely not a good enough answer and he knows that even before Bruce has the chance to actually raise his eyebrows – which he does anyway, because, well, he's Bruce.

“'m workin' on a thing with Tim”, he offers, knowing that it still won't be a good enough answer for Bruce and not caring at all because, well, he's Jason.

“Thought you'd be on patrol”, he adds.

“That was the idea”, Bruce sighs, then he lowers his eyes again, and Jason follows his gaze.

Damian's chest rises in synch with his breathing – which is slow, and regular, and well, it's there – and Bruce's hand lingers on it, gently rubbing the fabric of Damian's uniform, the big “R” just above his heart.

And Bruce doesn't have to say that it's hard. That it hurts. That some nights even he feels tired. But he doesn't have to look this old either. Or this heartbroken. And mostly important, Jason doesn't have to be here to witness it or, even worst, understand it. Private moment, yeah? Bruce used to be a lot better at hiding them, and Jason finds himself pondering about the horrible things that old age does to people.

“Well, you still can. I'm pretty sure the criminals won't mind if you're late”, he eventually spits out, because honestly, Bruce, what the fuck. And then, before things could get even more awkward, he steps into the room and reaches out for Damian. “I'll take him to bed.”

Bruce looks up at him, and he's surprised, yes, but there's something else on his face, something that could very well be another smile and. oh. my. god.

Jason grits his teeth and spends a couple of seconds looking like a total idiot, with both of his arms stretched forward in the middle of the living room of his not-house, looking at his not-father holding his not-brother and wondering about what the hell he is doing with his life. Then Bruce stands up from the couch and without a single word dumps the sleeping Robin in his outstretched arms.

The kid is warm and weighs almost nothing, and Jason refuses to look down at him when he feels Damian's head lolling against his shoulder and his little hand gripping the collar of his shirt. Refuses to look up at Bruce too, when he gets close, so damn close, to both him and the kid and bends over to kiss Damian's forehead. Refuses to inhale the familiar smell of the Batman's costume mixed with the faintest traces of Bruce's cologne. Refuses to acknowledge the hand on his shoulder and the way his not-father is now looking at both of them. Like they're a miracle.

But Jason won't have any of this shit. This is Dick's place, his role, his family. Not Jason's. He's just in the wrong place at the wrong time once more.

Luckily for both of them, Bruce decides to not push it further.

“Thank you, Jay”, it's all he says before walking out of the room.

“Mh”, Jason answers, way too late for him to hear. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, inadvertently squeezing Damian, who predictively doesn't appreciate the gesture.

The boy stirs a little in his arms, and Jason finally looks down at him. The brat's cute when he's asleep, Jason realizes. He's also going to put a knife somewhere in Jason's body if he wakes up and finds himself cuddled against him. Their relationship may have improved since their first meeting, but probably not this much.

He still allows himself to take Bruce's spot on the couch and cradle the kid closer to him. Just for a few minutes, he promises himself, because that's all he needs. Just a few minutes to breathe straight again and to clear his head of the hundreds of words that were not said, that will probably never be said. A few minutes to make sense of all of this. Nobody will know, not Bruce and not Damian. Because Jason's so much better at this private moment thing, honestly.

[unavenged-robin]

I LOVE your batdictionary series on AOOO. I has promt for you! I would like to see Damian cuddle Jason! They have an odd understanding but I want to see Jason be the only one that can hold Damian after a fight with Dick.

Thank you! ♥ And you hit me in my weak spot, honestly. Especially because I think after Dick, Jason makes the most interesting sibling relationship with Damian. Anyway, here we go, I hope it was what you were looking for!

Read on AO3 if you prefer

Jason likes to think he moved on, that he’s, if not a better person, at least a different one. Less angry, less crazy, more in control of his emotions. It takes nights like this one to truly realize that he actually is better, because it’s on nights like this one that he remembers how it used to feel like. The fire in the stomach and the taste of blood on the lips, trembling hands and gritted teeth, every muscle of his body tensed in anger and itching for a violent release, the need to hurt surpassed only by the need of being hurt.

He hates it.

He hates that one fight with Bruce can still reduce him like this, break him and cut him as if he were still a child caught doing something wrong while knowing that it could cost him everything.

“But the little I have now he couldn’t take it away even if he wanted”, he says to the gargoyle next to him. “So joke’s on him, you know?”

If the gargoyle knows, he doesn’t tell, not to him and not to anyone else. Secrets between friends are important to him, Jason’s learned. It’s one of the reasons he likes this place so much. There are years worth of whispered secrets impressed into the ancient stones, scorch marks of old cigarettes and deep scratches from a lot of different knives, dark shadows that were once either bloodstains or spilled coke. And everything is covered in pigeon shit. It’s sad and hilarious at the same time.

He leans back against the statue, hands crossed behind his head, feet resting against the railing, comfortable enough to close his eyes, uncomfortable enough to not fall asleep and towards a very ridiculous death.

And Gotham’s nights are never silent, or even quiet, but the noise of the streets it’s familiar, if not even welcomed to his ears, like a childhood lullaby. It happens every time he comes back, yet he’s still surprised at how it feels weird to call this city his home and at how it’s even weirder not to call it so. It’s one of those things he’ll probably never understand.

Like he doesn’t understand what tips him off a hour or so later, when he opens his eyes to find himself almost face to face with his littlest brother dangling upside down from one of the gargoyle’s horns, cape fluttering around his head in the night’s breeze and a little smirk on his face.

Jason blinks one, two, three times, and a few heartbeats go by before he reacts.

“You know you’re not a real bat, right? Despite the fact you do look like one”, he says, because if he starts yelling at him then Damian will know that he actually succeeded in startling him, and Jason’s not going to give him that satisfaction on his life.

Beside, he’s kinda impressed by how the kid managed to sneak on him like that.

Damian tries to look down on him but being on the wrong side of the up and down thing, he only manage to glower at him, and it’s not even as threatening as it usually is.

“Father is angry with you”, the kid says, still scowling.

“Get down from there”, Jason retorts. “And tell me what else is new under the sun.”

“It’s night”, Damian points out, because he likes to be irritating like that. “And because of you he’s now crossed with me too.”

“Well, shit”, Jason answers. “Now get down from there.”

Damian glances at him for a bit more, just to spite him, then he does this weird and almost painful to look backflip thing that has Nightwing’s trademark all over it. Jason watches the kid as he spins in the air for a moment, and then his feet land far too close to the edge, in what he knows it’s a perfect balance, and still it’s so unnerving to see him playing, if not with death, at least with some serious injury in such a careless way, so as soon as Robin comes in his reach he grabs him by his utility belt and pulls him down to sit next to him.

Structurally speaking, gargoyle statues are not designed for people to sit on them, but with a little of motivation Jason makes it work anyway. Damian being tiny helps a lot, still the kid is not that happy to end up squished against Jason’s side.

“Todd, I hope you are aware that your fatness is highly inconvenient both for your choice of lifestyle and for my person”, he complains, pushing not so lightly at him, and Jason elbows him in the ribs.

“First, keep your jealousy for my muscle mass in check, kid”, he retorts. “Second, this is my spot and you’re already occupying it illegally, so don’t be rude or I’ll push you down the fucking tower.”

“We both know you wouldn’t”, Damian chirps, definitely unimpressed by the threat. “And this is not your spot, it’s a public building.”

“The hell it is”, Jason answers. “This is Henry.”

Damian looks up at him in confusion.

“Henry?”

Jason points at Henry, Damian cranes his neck back to look at the gargoyle and then turns again towards him. He blinks, opens his mouth to say something - something nasty, knowing him - but then he seems to rethink it and he closes it again.

“You are a weird individual, Todd”, he states matter-of-factly after a moment, but he leaves it at that.

“Pot, meet kettle”, Jason snorts, then he looks him over from the corner of his eye. “You wanna tell me what are you doing here?”

“I told you, Father is angry at me because of you”, the kid answers, but if that was true by now he’d have come at Jason with a knife and a thirst for revenge and he wouldn’t be sitting quietly next to him.

“I suppose you mean that he came home angry because of our fight and then yelled at you for no reason?”, he translates.

“He kind of had a reason”, Damian admits reluctantly. “Tonight I was supposed to be working on my moral qualities instead of my physical ones.”

“You were grounded”, Jason corrects with half a smile.

A grunt.

“If you prefer.”

“I still don’t see how it is my fault, brat.”

Damian glowers again and doesn’t answer, so Jason dramatically throws his hands in the air.

“Fine, fine, my apologies for having indisposed your dad so much that he actually forgot to spoil you as he usually does”, he scoffs, earning himself a pointy little elbows in a painful place between his ribs. He shoves at the kid’s head in retaliation, and blocks another punch aimed at his torso before they both give up.

Jason looks over at the kid again and sighs. When he speaks again he’s pretty sure that Henry’s going to laugh at him forever because of this.

“You know you didn’t exactly made things better between the both of you by sneaking off again after he already scolded you for it, right?”, he says anyway because somehow, somewhen and somewhere, without meaning it and definitely without wanting it, he discovered that he didn’t entire loath the idea of being an older brother to Bruce’s kids. And sometimes that meant saying hypocritical shits like this. He wonders how Dick pulls it off so neatly.

Damian gives him the universal I don’t care one bit about that sign, also known as a shrug. Which is kind of fair, since he’s, like, thirteen. Jason doesn’t know what the hell he was expecting, to be honest.

“Look, kid, you know how Bruce is”, he tries again.

Damian nods.

“Yes, I know. Father”, he starts slowly, measuring the words with great care. “Can be a fucking asshole sometimes.”

He lands it there just like this, and again, the only reaction Jason’s capable of having right away is to blink. One, two, three times. He didn’t misheard. A fucking asshole, that’s what the kid said. And it’s not even the words themselves - because god bless Alfred who keeps trying his best to educate all of them, but the kid has a foul mouth almost as bad as Jason’s - no, it’s the words and the combination of voice and accent, with all the right pauses and the syllables stretched out in all the right places.

He didn’t copy Jason’s voice - something he knows from Tim that he’s well capable of doing - yet it’s still very clear that Damian’s imitating him and that’s not one bit funny. Already in mild panic he picks up the kid and sits him down on his lap without even thinking about the likely violent physical repercussions of his act.

“Please, please, please”, he begs, grabbing him by his arms. “Tell me you never said that in front of Alfred.”

Damian clicks his tongue at him and there’s a spark of malevolent fun in his eyes while he drags the silence between them just to keep him on his toes.

“Damian”, Jason growls in a warning tone.

“Jason”, he mocks him.

A little shake, a little digging of big fingers into little shoulders.

“I’m not suicidal, Todd”, Damian finally capitulates with a scoff.

Jason finally exhales.

“Good. Because that would be a murder–suicide, you know? No way Alfred would let me live if he thinks that I’ve taught you to speak like that about your father”, he pauses. “Which I definitely didn’t. Right?”

Damian shakes his head no but his lips curl in a smile that promises future blackmailing and the opening of a brand new category of annoying mockeries.

“You are a little shit”, Jason sighs dramatically, but he can’t deny to be a little amused by the whole thing. He’s even more amused when Damian squirms over his lap, trying to regain his sitting spot between Henry’s stone paws.

He stops him more to annoy him than anything else, locking his arms around his waist to make him stay in place. Damian punches and wriggles around, pushing at every bit of Jason he can reach, but once established that he’s not letting go without a serious fight Damian does the same thing he uses to do with Dick: he huffs and theatrically leans in his older brother’s embrace, making a show of humoring him out of the graciousness of his heart. Jason laughs and rubs his stubbly cheek against Damian’s forehead, causing a new wave of protests and escape attempts.

“What were you and Father arguing about?”, Damian asks softly a few minutes later, once he quietens again.

He doesn’t look at him and Jason doesn’t know if he really wants an answer to his question or if he’s only asking him out of some sense of balance, since he’s not really grasped yet the concept of getting something without necessarily having to give something else back. Whatever his reasons are, Jason doesn’t really want to go there again.

“It doesn’t matter, kid”, which is kinda the truth. The subject of the argument is not the point, it’s the argument itself the problem. Raised voices and clenched fists, and a burning anger that should be long gone flaring back between them at the first spark. He’s supposed to be better than this.

“He told me about… Henry. Father, I mean”, Damian says, his voice still low and thoughtful. “Not tonight, of course. And he didn’t know you named it Henry, or he would’ve sent you to Arkham a lot sooner”, he teases, earning himself a painful pinch on his thigh. “But he told me that this was your favorite place back when- when you were-”

“Yeah, it was”, Jason deadpans, cutting him off just a little bit too abruptly, then he shoots his little brother a confused look. “Why did you two even had a conversation about this place anyway? Have you been here before?”

He feels more than he sees Damian shrugging against him.

“I used it as an observation post a while back, during a case. It has a good visual on the city”, he explains. “Father looked… uncomfortable with my choice, so I inquired for details.”

“Oh”, Jason answers. And he leaves it at that because honest to god, he doesn’t want to know anything else about Bruce and his weird, sudden attacks of feelings. Also he’s not a total idiot and Damian’s not as sneaky as he thinks he is.

He’s wondering about calling the kid out on his failed attempt to play peacemaker (and for what reason he’d try to do something like that Jason can’t even begin to imagine), but then something in one of Robin’s utility belt’s pockets pings and Damian wrestles again with Jason’s hold to pull out his phone.

Jason’s expecting angry voicemails or peremptory orders to come back home sent via text, instead the kid opens up a game and starts playing with some weirdly yellow viking midgets.

“Someone’s trying to attack my village and steal its resources”, Damian explains while he quickly taps on the screen. “Unworthy fools.”

Jason blinks. Tonight Damian is full of surprises, apparently.

“Uh-uh.”

“It’s good practice for strategy training and studying attack patterns.”

A light scoff.

“Sure.”

Since Damian can’t spare a hand to swat him with, he hits him in the shoulder with the back of his head.

“Shut up, Hood.”

Jason grins and complies for all of two minutes.

“You plan to spend the entire night up here playing video games?”, he asks then, eyes still focussed on the phone screen.

Again, Damian’s only answer is a shrug.

And, well. It’s not like Jason had better things to do tonight, and he doesn’t really mind the company. Henry doesn’t either, probably. Beside, Damian is a warm and weirdly soft weight against him, and he smells like kevlar and children shampoo, just like home used to, long, long time ago. So he sighs and rests his chin on the top of Damian’s head.

“Okay then.”

*

Sitting between the huge gargoyle’s paws, holding his knees close to his chest and wrapped in the black Robin’s cape, Damian looks every bit like a little bird kicked out of the nest way too soon.

Jason wonders if that’s how he looked like too, all those years ago, when Bruce came looking for him. He doesn’t remember feeling that tiny, but he’s pretty sure Damian doesn’t think as himself as tiny either, so it’s probably all adulthood wisdom.

He climbs up the old stones without having to pay too much attention to it, hands and feet automatically finding support points a little consumed by the years, but still as solid and reliable as ever.

He doesn’t pauses until he reaches Damian, and even then he doesn’t allow any silence wall between them. He scratches his knuckles against the kid’s head as a greeting, then gently pulls down the hood.

“So, baby D, what did your dad do this time?”, he singsongs cheerfully, sitting down next to him. Again, not the simplest of the tasks, but Jason’s getting the handle of it.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that there’s been a fight. You find a moping Robin perched on a roof and you can be sure as hell there’s an angry Batman somewhere else. It’s some kind of unwritten natural law.

Damian doesn’t answer right away, but he reaches back and pulls the hood over his head again. Jason has to poke him a few times to irritate him enough to make him snap.

“He’s a fucking asshole”, the kid snarls, and this time he’s not imitating Jason, he says it in his own voice, and Jason smiles because he can’t help it more than Damian can: it sounds so freaking cute.

“And what else is new under the sun”, he agrees anyway. “And don’t say “it’s night” because I’ll punch you.”

Damian doesn’t take the bait, just burrows his head further into his shoulders.

“C’mon kid, I’ll throw in an ice cream if it’s something that he’s never done before”, Jason tries again.

Still no answer.

“Fine, okay. Whatever it is we’ll just drop Henry over his head when he comes look for you. I’m positive he deserves it anyway.”

“He won’t look for me here”, Damian finally replies, bitter and angry. “He won’t look for me anywhere. He’s got better things to do now.”

“That’s not true, kid”, Jason offers weakly. “Beside, you said it yourself that Bruce knows about-”, he starts, and that’s when it clicks. Damian didn’t correct him when he said your dad but they were never talking about Bruce. And, well, shit.

It’s not like he doesn’t understand, because when it comes to love, Jason actually understands blurred lines more than anyone else. Fathers and brothers, children and partners, friends and lovers, it’s actually all very simple, just in a complicated kind of way.

He looks at Damian and thinks about Scarlet and Lian and Bizzarro and he decides that next time he sees him, Nightwing’s going to catch the hard part of Jason’s helmet with his forehead. He’s not gonna say anything, but he’ll take a photo and send it to Damian, and that will probably be enough for both of them, since as vengeance go, bats and little bats are always down for it.

But that’s for later. Right now he just pulls out his phone, unlocks it and taps on a little yellow icon.

And Damian must recognize the cheery jingle of the game right away, because he raises his head enough to peek out from under his hood almost immediately.

“I’m stuck at level four”, Jason explains, holding the phone for Damian to see. It’s not the complete truth because he’s not stuck, he just didn’t have the time to play it for a while, but Damian really doesn’t need to know that. “Wanna help?”

The kid considers the offer for a few seconds, then he makes grabby hands for the phone and Jason promptly pulls it out of his reach.

“Yeah, sure, I’m gonna leave my phone into my kid brother’s unsupervised hands, that’s totally gonna happen”, he scoffs. “Look, kid, I may not be Oracle but I know a few things about data protection and how memes are born.”

That at least earns him a sideways impish grin.

“Come here”, Jason says, smiling back.

This time it’s a offer, pure and simple. One that Damian knows he can refuse without hurting anyone’s feelings. One that he partially accepts anyway by leaning against Jason’s side and not rejecting the arm promptly wrapped around his shoulder.

Jason lets him take his phone then, and watches as he expertly starts to move around the little vikings, practically destroying everything Jason’s builded to remade the village according to his own schemes, loudly and quite rudely insulting his poor strategy skills in the meanwhile.

He buries his hand into Damian’s short hair and watches him play, throwing a few creative insults himself just to maintain the status quo and not to disappoint the kid, who clearly likes him better as a bad influence. And maybe it’s not much, but at least it’s something. Something little, but nice and honest, something that one day may become a cherished memory. Or not. Right now, Jason doesn’t really care.

[unavenged-robin]

Serendipity

Serendipity (n) Finding something nice while looking for something else.

Or the one where Damian is very cold and accidentally finds out that Dick is misusing Batman's utility belt.

Read on Ao3

It's cold, Gotham cold. The kind of cold that makes people think of graveyards under the rain and familiar names written in marble, of abandoned castles and empty mirrors, of dead blue eyes and the edge of a sword pressed against their throat in the dark.

But maybe that's just Damian.

He's pretty sure Grayson's thoughts wander in a very different direction. He's probably thinking about couches and fireplaces, and fingers tightly wrapped around mugs filled with steaming-hot chocolate (and - of course - mini-marshmallow, because apparently they are absolutely essential, you should try them in your coffee too, trust me on this, Dami) (and then a smile, because apparently smiles are essential too, at least to Grayson) (Still, Damian's not putting little sugar bombs in his beverages, thank you very much.)

It is worrisome, sometimes, the clarity of his brother's voice inside his head. Damian is almost eighty percent positive that Grayson would not turn to mental conditioning to subdue him, but one can never know for sure. Pennyworth – for instance - would totally resort to it, if only to make him clean his room properly.

“You okay, kiddo?”, Grayson asks, and Damian almost jumps. Keyword is almost. He's been trained a lot better than to actually jump, but he knows that as minimal as his reaction was, there's no way the Batman hadn't noticed it. It's kind of his job, after all.

“I wasn't distracted”, he retorts grimly, fidgeting with the rim of his hood and well aware of the white lens-shielded eyes glancing at him from above.

“I never said you were”, Grayson says, but Damian can hear the smile behind his words. He's getting used to this kind of gentle reprimand, but it still makes him uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable makes him angry, so he bites down the traitor sorry that was just about to slip from his lips – because, yeah, Damian knows that he's not supposed to think about his brother thinking about hot chocolate while they're on patrol, even if the patrol is just a boring waiting and it's so. damn. cold.

The instinct to apologize is also a good cause of worry, Damian discovers. He really needs to take in serious consideration the possibility of mental conditioning being secretly performed on him.

A gust of icy wind makes his cape swirls around his body. Damian shivers, then grabs back the edges of his cape and angrily tightens his fists around them. He feels his brother's stare on him once again, and once again refuses to meet his eyes.

“You cold?”

Damian stubbornly shakes his head.

“No”, he lies. And then, without a real reasons, he adds “Just hungry.”

It's not true, not really. But Dick hums at him, then reaches down for his belt with one hand, grabs something from one of the compartments and throws it at him.

Damian catches it on instinct – hates to think of it as training, he's not a Pavlov's dog – and only after he gets hold of it he actually looks down to see what it is. And then he has to look again because there's no way that-

He finally looks up to meet his brother's eyes and very seriously, very carefully, and despite it being a useless question at this point, Damian has to ask.

“You keep cookies in your utility belt?”

There's something else in his voice beside pure disbelief and the very distinctive sound of his Al Ghul's blood screaming at him that he had not betrayed his Mother and his Grandfather and an entire life of opposite ideals for this shit, but whatever that something else is, Damian chooses to leave it alone for now.

Grayson grins down at him. The smiling Batman. The Batman with a gentle voice and chocolate chips cookies in his utility belt. Damian was definitely not trained for this.

“They're Alfred's”, is the only answer Dick offers.

Damian snorts, then takes a bite. Yes, definitely Pennyworth's cookies.

“You are a disgrace as a Batman”, he still feels obliged to point out.

“But I make a cool big brother, uh?”, Dick teases.

Damian doesn't answer, but clicks his tongue in a noncommittally way that could always be claimed as an insult later, if the circumstances so required.

Dick smiles again.

“If Penguin doesn't show up by midnight we go home and we make ourself a hot chocolate, what do you say?”

“I say you're predictable”, Damian retorts. This time he acknowledges the smile hidden in his own voice, and wonders if Grayson can hear it too.

(Dick totally can.)

[unavenged-robin]

Characters: Tim Drake & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne Additional Tags: Swearing, Minor Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff

Chapter 1

It becomes a habit much more quickly than he likes to admit, and for a lot of different reasons that are not just because I’m bored and I have nothing better to do tonight, which is usually what he tells Tim when he calls him to ask if they’re okay with him coming over.

Tim always says yes, of course Jay, we’ll wait for you, and never even comments on the fact that Jason has his own keys and he doesn't really have to ask him anything at all. He lets him live in his fake denial and Jason is kinda happy that way, or at least that’s what he says to himself everytime he opens the door of Tim’s apartment with his arms full of grocery bags.

Tonight, as many other nights, Tim and Damian are sitting at the opposite sides of the kitchen table, laptops open in front of them and piles of books framing their space like walls of two rival forts on a battlefield, a matching frown on both of their faces. Tim’s wearing his reading glasses and gnawing the top of his pencil with a focussed expression, and Jason knows he’s been working non-stop for hours now. Damian, on the other hand, is perched on the edge of his chair, fingers playing with the cord of his headphones, watching the screen of his laptop with glassy eyes, and Jason knows he’s bored out of his mind and just pretending to be working because of Tim.

He scoffs both at them and at himself, because really, if he’s noticing these kind of things already it means that he’s spending way too much of his time with these two shitheads. And that’s not okay. For a lot of reasons. He has a very long list of them somewhere.

“Alright, enough with this shit”, he says while walking into the kitchen, loud enough to snap Tim out of his working trance and for Damian to hear him despite the outrageous volume of his iPod. He has no doubt they’ve noticed him the moment he’s set foot in the apartment, they both probably just didn’t believe necessary to acknowledge his presence in any way. The brats.

He sets the bags on the counter with a loud thud and turns around to see both of his brothers glaring at him with an identical raised eyebrow. If they were closer to each other the urge to bang their heads together would probably be too strong for Jason to resist.

“Put all of those books away, then come help me with the groceries”, he orders with his best impersonation of Alfred’s voice.

“And exactly what was the cause of the head trauma you obviously had to suffer to think that we’re at your service, Todd?”, Damian asks, shooting him one of his best looks of haughty disdain.

Tim laughs but closes his laptop and stands up anyway.

“Come on, Damian, don’t be ungrateful”, he chides lightly. “After all Jason’s the one with the skill to turn raw food into a real dinner.”

“I never said I was gonna cook”, Jason retorts. And it’s true, but what’s also true is that he doesn’t have to say it because everyone, himself included, just take it for granted since Tim can’t cook anything that doesn’t come from the frozen food section and no one with a shred of survival instinct would ever allow Damian to play with knives and open fire.

“And if you don’t get a move you’re going to wash the dishes tonight”, he warns Damian, who just clicks his tongue at him.

“I see the trauma was even more serious than expected since you’re also experiencing memory losses”, the kid answers without losing a beat. “We have a dishwasher, unlike some uncivilized overgrown bullies”, Damian reminds him smugly and Jason, well aware of the responsibilities coming from being the adult of the situation, throws an apple at him.

Damian catches it easily and takes a bite out of sheer spite, and Jason wants to bang his head against the wall when he realizes that the first thing that almost gets out of his mouth is you’ll ruin your appetite, you little shit. When did he ever become a very less polished and well-mannered version of Alfred Pennyworth he will never know. What he knows is who he has to blame for it, though.

“You little shit”, he just grumbles back, narrowing his eyes at him, but it’s a weak retort and Damian triumphantly grins at him.

Tim just shakes his head, hiding his own smile and taking up some of Damian’s books while walking around the table.

“Alright guys, let’s call a truce”, he offers. “I’ll put the books away and set the table, and Damian can help with the bags and the cooking.”

Jason scoffs and starts pulling out the groceries. Damian, having won his own personal moral battle against Jason, graciously helps him putting them away, still munching at his apple with great satisfaction. He doesn’t even retaliate when Jason accidentally swats him on the back of his head with a stalk of celery, and that means he’s in a good mood. Tim too looks pretty much content when he comes back and starts moving around them to take out the tableware.

Jason, on his part, finds himself settling in the domestic bliss quite easily, and almost without noticing it. He cooks, and he grabs the things Tim needs from the top shelves for him with a teasing smile, and he teaches Damian how to slice the vegetables without making them looking like the victims of a homicide.

With dinner, movies and no patrol for once, in the end it turns out to be a real nice, homely family night, and that’s probably why Jason keeps forgetting all the reasons why he shouldn’t get too attached to any of this.

*

Of course quiet family nights are a rarity more than a common occurrence.

Most of the times Jason would open the door and find Tim and Damian shouting or launching things at each other (no physical fights though, that’s one thing he has to give to them), or barricaded in their bedrooms blasting music at each other at full volume - and thank god Damian scared the neighbours enough to convince them to never ever think of meddling in their fights, or cops and social services would be constant guests of this house.

Usually he would side with Tim and force the little demon to back off (because at the cost of sounding biased, Damian is the responsible party ninety percent of the time), or just shout at them both until they both shut up, and sometimes - because there were those times too, no use in lying about it - he would just turn back and walk the hell out of there.

Then one night he comes- okay, no, he’s not going to think about this as him coming home because this is not his home, not even close to it, in fact, despite having now spent two weeks in a row coming here every night to have dinner and leave for patrol together and then come back again to crash on the couch and god, he needs to put a stop to this yesterday.

So, one night he comes to Tim’s apartment and the place is a mess. A truly, unholy, striking mess that makes his heart jump a beat because when it was the last time they heard about Ra’s? Or Talia, for that matter? And Ra’s always had a weird obsession with Tim, so what if they came here together to take away both of them and then split them, Tim with Ra’s and Damian with his mother? What the hell is Jason supposed to do if that’s the case?

“Tim! Damian!”, he calls, panic making his voice sounding thick with anger more than with worry, and he’s almost ready to bolt out of the door and towards the Manor - because fuck the whole amnesia thing, if the kids are in trouble he’ll force Bruce to remember them with his fists if he has to, no fucking way he’s letting him come too late for them too - but then a soft whimper attracts his attention and he stops in his tracks.

The sound came from Tim’s bedroom so Jason runs there, ready to find his brother covered in blood and the confirmation that Damian’s gone - but at least Tim’s here and together they can and they will get him back, Bruce or not Bruce. Those were Tim’s words, not so many weeks ago.

He finds Tim on his bed, laying on his stomach, a pillow pressed over his head. No blood, no wounds, and the mess around him is the usual Tim-mess, not the tornado-like mess in the half destroyed living room.

“Tim?”, Jason calls to him, the pit of his stomach still tight as a knot but now for a different reason.

“Mph”, Tim answers into the mattress.

Jason growls.

“Tim, what the fuck happened out there?”

There must be some kind of dangerous undertone in his voice because Tim doesn’t huff at him again. Instead he raises the pillow from his head and turns around to look at him. He takes in Jason’s posture, his white face and clenched fists, then he seems to consider the state of the rest of his house and how all of this would look like from a point of view of someone who knows what these kind of situations usually means and he just goes ...oh.

“Oh. No, no, it’s not- It’s okay, Jay. That was all Damian. Well, almost all Damian. Sorry”, Tim babbles, now propped up on his elbows, ruffled hair and eyes big with worry and guilt.

And Jason wants to be angry, he really wants it. He also wants to storm out of this goddamn apartment and never come back again because seriously, he did not die and come back to life for this kind of shit. Instead he plops down on Tim’s bed and hides his face in his hands, rubbing his forehead in the vain attempt to stop the incipient headache he knows it’s coming.

“I thought it was Ra’s”, he hums against his palms, because there’s no point in trying to look less ridiculous than he feels.

“Sorry”, Tim offers again, moving closer to him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Mh”, Jason answers.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he finds the strength to ask.

“You want to tell me why Damian decided to redecorate the house to make it look like a dump?”

Tim sighs and lets himself fall back on the bed.

“We were fighting about patrol again”, he answers, closing his eyes. “You know how he is.”

Jason does know. It’s been a periodical fight in the last month, with the little demon being more and more insistent on wanting to try the solo thing while Tim’s busy with the Titans and Jason with the Outlaws, instead of just getting dragged along by one of them. And he had some valid points too, Jason can’t deny it, but let an eleven years old - even this eleven years old - patrolling Gotham completely alone is something neither him or Tim are ready to do.

“He kept saying that Dick and even Bruce would’ve let him out on his own”, Tim goes on, voice just a little above a whisper. “And… I don’t know, I just lost it. Because I know, and you know, and even Damian knows that they would’ve never- that Bruce would never... And I must’ve said the wrong thing again and he snapped. So I snapped too. I think I throw him across the room, and things obviously escalated from there.”

“Tim…”, Jason starts.

“I know. But I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying. But he’s so frustrating sometimes and-”, he pauses, pressing a hand over his eyes. “I get that he misses Bruce and Dick, I get it. I know it’s hard and I know he’s, well, Damian. But I swear to god, sometimes I just want to give him a goddamn spanking.”

Jason finds himself chuckling at that.

“Well, it wouldn’t be underserved”, he agrees. “But then he’ll probably slit your throat in retaliation.”

“Definitely, not probably”, Tim corrects him with a snort.

Silence sets back between them and Jason stares at the floor, knowing what Tim’s going to ask him next. To his credit, Tim bites his lips and looks very apologetic when he finally does ask.

“Can you talk to him, Jason? Sometimes he listens to you, you know.”

Jason only snorts at that.

“Sometimes he listened to Dick. Maybe. If he was in a good mood. And if the stars were in the right position”, he corrects him bitterly. “But yeah, why not, I guess I’d earn my share of insults anyway so we might as well get on with it.”

*

He finds Damian on his bed, laying on his back, a pillow pressed over his face.

He wants to laugh.

They’re so similar, yet they would never admit it. They get offended with him every time he tries to point it out, and it’s so funny and so sad at the same time that they can’t see it when it’s so obvious to him (and would be so obvious to Bruce and to Dick too, if only they were here now, but then again, if they were here now none of them would be in this mess in the first place.)

He approaches the bed slowly and with heavy steps, making sure not to take the kid by surprise, in the very remote case he’s actually sleeping. Damian doesn’t react to his presence in any way, doesn’t even protest when Jason sits on the edge of his bed and prods him in his leg with a finger.

“Nice work out there, kid. You must really be a little prince to fuck up so majestically”, he says, going for the direct confrontation. Damian doesn’t believe in edulcorated discussions or in softening the blow, he likes a hit to be blunt and honest and Jason both respects and agrees with that. “Want me to call you Your Highness from now on?”

“Go away”, Damian orders him, but his usually imperious tone now sounds a little wet around the corners.

“Are you crying?”

The kid shifts a little, trying to distract him to hide a sniffle, and that’s all the answer Jason needs.

“Good. That’s probably the only proper reaction you had tonight”, Jason comments harshly because, like Tim, he gets it too - how could he not. A dead brother, an absent father, a house they don’t dare to call home, that’s something all of them can understand.

And yes, Damian is still a child, a child who’s been abused beyond comprehension since the day he was born, but that doesn’t mean that he can get away with everything. Pain and loneliness are not a justification for violence or for hurting other people, and yes, he knows that if he says that out loud Damian will quite literally skin him alive because that qualifies as the right title for his future autobiography, but that’s also why he’s the one who can truly say this kind of shit and knowing what he’s talking about. He walked that road first, after all, and what’s the point of his entire second life if he can’t even save his own brothers from making the same mistakes?

“I am not crying”, Damian only answers from under the pillow, making it even more clearly that he is, in fact, crying.

Jason sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Messy houses, moody teenagers, crying children: here they are the top three bullet points of that infamous list of reasons he keeps forgetting.

He looks at Damian’s hands, clenched into fists around the edges of his pillows, whitened knuckles and arms rigid with tension, then turns his head towards the door frame, where Tim’s lean figure has just appeared. Jason sighs again.

“It’s not a matter of trust, you know”, he says slowly, looking at his own hands. “It’s not even a matter of skills. This is about doing what’s right for you- what Bruce and Dick would want for you, if you prefer.”

“They don’t-”

“I know they don’t. But Bruce’s going to remember eventually, no way this is going to be permanent. You know that. And you also know that the moment he’ll get you back he’ll never let you patrol alone until you’re old enough to drive legally at least.”

“I did it anyway”, Damian mutters, so softly Jason almost doesn’t catch it. “The driving, but also patrol alone. Sometimes. When he was off-planet with the League.”

He laughs bitterly at that.

“Of course you did it. Hell, we all did it, at some point. And who knows, maybe a few times he really didn’t find out about it.”

Or he found out too late, but let’s not go there.

“I wouldn’t count on that”, Tim says from the door, with a smile in his voice. “I always got grounded for it, no matter how sneaky I thought I’d been.”

Jason hums in agreement, and Damian doesn’t disagree, so Tim goes on.

“This is not permanent, Damian”, he says, repeating Jason’s words. “But for now we need to make it work anyway.”

There is a long silence, and Damian only answers after Jason pokes his leg again.

“I know”, he grumbles, pillow still pressed on his face so tightly Jason’s really starting to wonder how in hell he’s still breathing.

“Want to come out from under there and say something else?”

“No.”

Jason pinches his side and Damian unclenches one of his hand to swat him, giving him the opportunity to snatch the pillow away from the kid’s other hand. He meets Damian’s puffy, angry red glare with an impish grin.

“So?”, he prompts him again.

Damian looks away from him and makes a point to look anywhere else but at his brothers.

“I will help with the cleaning”, he murmurs.

Which is not an apology at all, but it’s close enough for Tim to nods at him. Jason has half a mind to insist anyway, but he’s also so not in the mood for a fight right now, so he pushes down all the snappy comebacks on how helping with the cleaning is the least he can do and gets up from the bed.

“And no patrol for a week”, he adds anyway, crossing his arms over his chest because if he has to play the adult he might as well do it properly. Also he’s kind of curious about Damian’s reaction, because if the kid decides to start trashing the room again, at least Jason will have the confirmation that this entire night has been nothing but an useless exercise in patience.

But Damian doesn’t start screaming or launching things at him. He only scowls and shoots him a look full of disdain, which, Jason supposes, is as close as he’ll ever get to acquiesce.

He watches the kid scrambling out of the bed and then out of the room, pausing only for a moment next to Tim, who gently squeezes his shoulder when the kid walks past him.

Jason will never understand his younger brothers, honestly.

From the sound of it Damian’s already starting to pick up pieces of the smashed furniture when finally Tim turns towards him with a skeptical grimace on his face.

“You know that you just reminded him that instead of fighting us about this he can actually just try and do it behind our backs, right?”

Jason answers him with a tired smile.

“Yeah, the key concept here being instead of fighting us”, he points out. “What? You don’t feel up to the challenge? Damian will be delighted to hear that.”

Tim rolls his eyes at him.

“When this dumbass plan goes downhill - and it will go downhill, mark my word on this - you’ll find me right beside you, ready to put all the blame on your stupid perception of what is a situation improvement and what isn’t.”

“Yeah, sure”, Jason replies. “You’re welcome, little brother.”

Tim gives him a look all too similar to Damian’s previous one before he too walks out of the bedroom to help the kid with the cleaning, and Jason can only mentally groan at himself, knowing that this time he dug his own grave with his hands.

Totally unplanned second chapter because my brain does that sometimes. Still this is not going to turn into a longfic because let’s be honest, there is literally no plot here, just Jason getting random heart attacks because of his younger brothers.

Also I feel like I’m rewriting Lilo & Stitch for some reason??? I’m just not sure who’s who here because Damian should be Stitch but he’s more Lilo than anything, and Tim is totally Nani. So that makes Jason Stitch, I guess. I mean, he does have the temper.

[unavenged-robin]

Hi. Nightwing 15 really made me hope for Jason and Dick bonding fic from a writer as excellent as you!

Awn, thank you so much anon! Both for the compliment and the prompt, I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you like it ♥ Also I’m not really up to speed with Rebirth, so this is conveniently set somewhere between n52 and the new Nightwing.

Read it on AO3

This is a mess. A fucking mess.

The smoke is so thick around him he can barely see anything, and all there’s to see is fire and rubble anyway. He looks up, but the ceiling is gone, and above him there’s only Gotham’s dark sky, lacking stars and poetry just as every other night. How typical.

Jason’s not in a better shape than the collapsed building himself. He’s hurt in so many places he can’t actually localize the pain anymore, he’s half blinded and his ears are still ringing, even with his helmet still intact (or at least he hopes it’s still intact).

And there’s just. so. much. blood.

“So, on a scale from I just need Alfred to stitch it up to I’m gonna reuse the empty coffin in the Manor’s backyard just how bad it is, little Wing?”

Dick’s voice sounds muffled and distorted, but at least it’s there, and Jason wants to laugh but he physically can’t. The little air his lungs still manage to keep inside of him is barely enough to let him breathe, so no, laughing is out of question. Speaking should be too, probably, but if Jason Todd was a man who could keep his mouth shut… well, then that man definitely wouldn’t be Jason Todd.

“Jay?”, Dick calls him again, fake amusement now completely gone from his voice.

Jason coughs, waits for the pain in his chest to quiet a bit, then takes a deep breath. Or, at least, a breath as deep as he can manage with at least three broken ribs and a stab wound to his abdomen - and that’s just a preliminary assessment, he’s pretty sure he’s going to hit the hospital jackpot once he gets a serious check-up.

“Don’t make jokes on my death, Dickface”, he exhales eventually. “It’s rude.”

Dick huffs, but he’s clearly relieved to hear his voice. Jason can’t really see him in the dark, but he knows he’s somewhere near him. He was moving towards him when the bomb took off, so the shock wave must have thrown him in his vicinity.

“You spend, like, eighty percent of your time making jokes about your death”, Dick retorts, and he sounds even closer now. Jason shifts, his back against the wall, his hands clutching his side.

“Yeah, that’s because I fucking died”, he retorts with no heat whatsoever. He’s actually smiling a little bit. “And I’ll have you know that irony is a healthy coping mechanism.”

Dick scoffs at him loud enough for Jason to hear even through all the creaking and squeaking of the building trying to reassess what’s left of itself.

“You’re such a hypocrite”, Dick answers. “Also Damian calls you his zombie brother in front of his friends all the time and you never say anything.”

“That’s just because I’m glad he stopped introducing me as his butler’s butler”, and also because the little shit acknowledging him as his brother kinda makes him feel all warm inside, but he’ll invite the Joker over for a romantic dinner before he gives Dick that satisfaction. “Besides, the kid died too, so he’s kinda entitled to make death jokes.”

“Hey, I die-”

Jason cuts him off before he can finish.

“Don’t. Seriously, don’t”, he warns him. “I’m so tired of having this conversation. You didn’t really die, you just had a fake funeral.”

“It still counts.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Dick pauses, then grunts painfully while he moves pieces of concrete around to make his way towards him.

“You’re just embarrassed because you cried over your big brother’s fake death.”

“I actually laughed, you egomaniac asshole.”

Something on his right shifts and there’s a shower of debris somewhere over him. Dust and pieces of plaster fall all over his head, clattering against the metal of his hood, and then Dick’s there, just beside him.

“Liar”, he whispers, and Jason can practically hear the smile on his lips.

“Ask Babs if you don’t believe me”, he retorts anyway, because at this point is a matter of honor.

“I will”, his brother promises softly, then Jason feels the brush of his hands against his body and steels himself for what he knows will come next. He groans when Dick moves his hands away to examine the open wound himself, and downright whines when his brother’s fingers sink into his flesh to determine the gravity of it.

The stream of blood intensifies and Dick’s hands move again, now to push against the wound in a vain attempt to stop it, but Jason can see it flowing between Dick’s fingers, dark trickles staining the blue stripes of his brother’s uniform.

“I’m going to glue it”, Dick informs him almost colloquially, but Jason can see the hard line of his jaw and the frown he’s trying to ease. “We’ll deal with the eventual infections when we get you back to the cave.”

“If you get me back to the cave”, Jason replies. It was supposed to be a little taunt about their already forgotten argument about death jokes, but it comes out wrong and Dick shoots him an angry glare.

“When”, he repeats through his teeth, and Jason just nods.

He remains silent while Dick works on the wound, only moves to remove the helmet from his head and place it on the ground next to both of them. He looks around and then up again at the night sky. His entire body feels like it’s covered in hellfire and look! another death joke! Kind of weak, though, and not that much funny. Dick wouldn’t laugh at it, Jason thinks, as a dizzy feeling washes over him like a sea wave and his vision becomes oddly watery.

What a fucking mess, he swears again, before passing out.

*

He wakes up with his face pressed against Dick’s neck and his brother’s arm draped around his shoulders. Apparently you can’t close your eyes for the split of a minute without some bastard taking the opportunity to manhandle you in a hug. Perverts these days.

“Help is on the way”, Dick informs him as soon as he realizes he’s awake. He doesn’t say Batman because he was raised by Alfred, so a little tact still lingers on him despite his best efforts. Jason has the same problem sometimes. Bloody british education.

He struggles against Dick, trying to straighten himself up, and his brother accommodates his movements, a hand firmly squeezing his shoulder in a silent warning to take it easy.

Jason pats himself down until he feels the graze of the bandages now wrapping his torso. They’re still wet with blood but not too much, so Dick must have glued his wound well enough. It’s not gonna be funny to reopen it, but that’s pain for later. Right now he’s pretty happy to be alive and in less pain that he expected. All things considered, this isn’t so bad. And Dick seems to think the same thing because the moment their eyes meet, he graces Jason with a wide grin.

“Since we’re stuck waiting for the cavalry, let’s do that game, what’s its name…”, he pauses for effect and Jason rolls his eyes. “Something like we think we’re going to die so you tell me a secret you would’ve never told me otherwise and then we don’t die and I can use it to blackmail you for the foreseeable future.”

He even manages to look totally serious while saying it. He’s truly amazing.

“First, that’s a really long ass name for a game”, Jason retorts. “Second, I already told you to stop with the death jokes. Third, hell no, thank you.”

Dick dismisses him by waving a hand at him.

“C’mon, I’ll start”, he offers, and without even taking a moment to think about it, he lets out his big confession. “I had sex in the Batmobile.”

Jason snorts.

“Who didn’t.”

“Well, Damian, I hope.”

“Give him a couple of years.”

Dick groans at the very idea of his baby brother being old enough to even consider the idea of having sex and Jason laughs because oh boy, it’s going to be one hell of a ride for all of them when that kid hits puberty.

“Stephanie didn’t either”, Dick tries then and Jason shoots him a look of pure disbelief.

“Dick, come on, she totally took Tim’s virginity in there and you know it.”

It’s Dick’s turn to laugh now.

“And if you try to tell me that it wasn’t Barbara the one you had sex with in the Batmobile I swear I’ll shoot you”, Jason threatens him.

Dick makes an uncommitting sounds that has basically the same value of a confession.

“Okay, okay”, he surrenders. “But what about Bruce?”

A moment of silence while they both think about it.

“You know, I really don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, no, me neither”, Dick agrees. “Your turn.”

Jason huffs, and just to amuse himself he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I used to smoke when I was Robin.”

“That’s not a secret!”, Dick protests. “Everybody knows that!”

“And you having sex in the Batmobile was a secret? Please”, Jason scoffs. “If you tell me a shit secret you’re getting a shit secret back.”

Dick pouts at him. How he can be on his way towards his thirtieth birthday and still pout in a way that even Damian - the current master of scowling in their family - would find undignifying, it’s a mystery Jason has no interest to solve.

“Alright, a real secret then.”, Dick starts reasoning, and from his tone alone Jason immediately understands he’s not going to like the end of this conversation. “Something that I’d never tell you unless you were a mess of bruises and physically incapable of shooting me. Uhm, let me think about it for a second.”

“No”, Jason tries to interrupt him. “Stop right there. This is like the Bruce having sex thing. I don’t wanna know.”

“I lov-”, Dick starts, ignoring him and grinning like a maniac.

“I still have my guns on me, Grayson”, Jason warns.

Dick laughs.

“I missed you”, he amends, all baby blue eyes and big smile, and Jason slaps one of his hand over his face and groans.

“You fucking Disney princess”, he grumbles. “Can we just have one man-chat without you having to go all mushy on me?”

“I didn’t know we were having a man-chat”, Dick teases him, ruffling his hair because he’s obviously decided that one of them is not going to see the next sunrise. “I thought we were having a brother-chat.”

“You just like to see my suffer.”

Dick laughs again and shifts closer to him.

“I really missed you, though”, he says. “It was too long since the last time we teamed up and had a night out for ourselves. Even if it is for, you know, job.”

Jason gives him his best unimpressed glare.

“Maybe it’s because when I work with you I always seem to end up bloody.”

“Hey, that’s not my fault!”

“So you say, Dickwing.”

Dick’s comm buzzes back to life and Jason recognizes Tim’s concerned voice and the annoyed clicking of a tongue that can only belong to Damian. He goes still for a moment, then slowly relaxes. Better them than the big man himself, he thinks, and if he’s disappointed by it he’s not going to admit to anyone, much less to himself.

“So, before the kids arrive and start giving you shit for getting yourself blown up, is there something you want to say to me in return?”, Dick grins a Cheshire Cat’s grin and Jason takes in serious consideration the idea of headbutting him since he’s close enough to do it.

He knows what he’s supposed to say, and it’s not like he didn’t miss him too, because he did, in the last year he found himself missing him and Alfred and Tim and Damian and yes, even Bruce, more times that he’d like to admit. But.

“Well, let’s see. A secret that I’d never tell you unless I was in such a bad shape you could never retaliate, no matter how angry you’d be. Uhm, let me think about it”, he pretends to ponder.

“Jay, there is nothing you could do to-”, Dick starts with an indulgent smile, but he looks mildly concerned anyway. Now it’s Jason’s turn to smile like a mad men, but only mentally. If there’s something he’s learned from Tim, after all, is the value of a good bluff.

“Are you really, really sure?”, he interrupts him, looking at his brother dead in the eyes. He watches the uncertainty in Dick’s eyes turning into suspicion and then blatant distrust. Maybe he should be offended, but it truly makes him proud the way he can still keep Dick on his toes even if he’s not the bad guy anymore.

“Jason, what the fuck did you do to-”, he starts, but it’s too late. There’s some shuffling and the soft sound of two consecutives landings, and then their little brothers join them among the ruins.

“What a mess”, Tim comments, coming closer to inspection Jason’s wounds. He’s carrying a medical kit and looks like he’s already in his full doctor mode. “All you two?”

“You truly exceeded yourselves”, Damian agrees, sounding strangely approving of their trail of destruction.

“Just a bomb we didn’t take in consideration”, Dick explains quickly. “And we were having an important conversation, so if you two don’t mind-”

“I do mind”, Damian answers immediately.

“Hood needs medical care, Wing”, Tim says at the same time, crouching in front of Jason. “You can continue your conversation later. Give me a hand to lift him up.”

“But-”

“Later”, it’s Tim final word, spoken in the best Batman voice he can manage, so Dick has to suck it up and help him getting Jason - who’s trying, not that hard to be honest, not to gloat in his face - back on his feet.

“We’re not finished”, Dick growls in his ear, while fixing up one of Jason’s arm around his shoulder and the other around Tim’s. But he must know that it’s an empty threat because there’s no way Alfred or Tim would allow Dick to bother him with stupid question about a cheated game when he’s recovering from an explosion. Death jokes are not just for fun, you know.

“Hey, I’ve never agreed to play your game in the first place”, Jason reminds him with a mocking grin. “You have only yourself to blame.”

Dick, who can be a vindictive asshole when he wants to be, only answers with a slap to the back of his head (no injuries there - until a moment ago, at least) earning himself an outraged glance from Tim, a reproaching click of the tongue from Damian and a victorious laugh from Jason.

[unavenged-robin]

Ephemeral

Ephemeral (n) short-lived.

Or the one where Bruce gets to be a husband and a father for a night.

Read on AO3

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Talia al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Selina Kyle Additional Tags: Hallucinations, alternative reality, Light BDSM, bruce’s subconscious is a weird place, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad

He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the cave. His head is spinning, his hands are trembling around the wheel, everyone’s screaming at him.

We thought you were better than this, his mother says.

You made a promise to us, is this how you keep it?, his father asks.

Bruce grits his teeth, doesn’t answer. Fighting with the dead is never a good idea, they have nothing else to lose, so they always win.

He stumbles out of the car as soon as it stops, he meets the cave floor with his hands and not with his face just out of a combination of good reflexes and sheer instinct.

That’s pathetic, Damian comments, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

Give him a break, kiddo, Dick scolds him. He’s getting old.

Old, Cassandra repeats with a knowingly tone.

“Shut up”, Bruce growls, propping himself up on his elbows. The walls of the cave catch his voice and send back echoes of it at him, taunting him. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

You shut up, old man, Jason retorts. I’m not above kicking you while you’re already down, you know.

Bruce, the poison is acting faster, Tim butts in, always the voice of reason. You need to find the antidote now.

“I know”, Bruce replies with another growl. It’s a lie. He had forgotten about the poison. Just for a moment.

He raises his head, looking for his children. They may not always be on the best of terms, but they would always help him in a crisis. He knows that.

He’s alone.

Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone. Flew the nest long time ago. Dick has his own city, Tim his own life, Jason his own battles. Bruce never really had a choice with them. As for Cassandra and Damian, well. Cass had always done her thing, and Damian’s just starting to understand what is like not to have a destiny, what life tastes of when you can shape its course and not just follow orders. Bruce’s choosing to let them go.

Right, Damian snorts, leaning towards the computer’s console and looking at him trying to get back on his feet. Because otherwise you would definitely have a say in what I decide to do, Father.

Be nice, Little D, Dick cuffs him lightly on the back of his head.

Yeah, kid, don’t you see he’s dying? Show some respect for the fucking dead, Jason snickers.

You are gonna die if you don’t act quickly, Bruce, Tim agrees. Cassandra only hums.

“I know”, Bruce repeats. His head feels light, his legs are not working correctly. He knows he has an antidote somewhere, but he has to force his mind into focussing on remembering where and what it looked like. He wonders where Alfred is, and if he’s going to find him in time.

He blacks out somewhere between the car and the stairs.

*

He wakes up in a bed, surrounded by darkness. He barely has the time to recognize his own bedroom, then both body memory and instincts set in and he’s running towards the bathroom before he even realizes his stomach is turning inside out.

He throws up on white marbles and fine porcelain indiscriminately. Alfred is going to be mad at him even if he’s not going to say it. Normally he would clean up after himself but he feels hot, like he has a fever, and he feels weak, weaker than he’s been in years.

You don’t look good, beloved, a woman’s voice agrees.

Bruce raises his head and Talia’s there, standing in front of the sink, long red dress and bare feet, leaning towards the mirror, a tube of mascara in her hand.

Perhaps we should cancel the dinner, I’m sure the Major will understand.

She does her eyes slowly and with great care, mouth slightly open, lips as red as her dress. The bracelets on her wrists jingle everytime she moves, and she looks so beautiful and so real Bruce has to run away from her.

His bedroom is still dark, but he can see a lump on his bed. Selina blinks back at him from under the linen sheets and she yawns and stretches in that cat-like way she does everything.

‘Morning darling, where were you?, she smiles.

Bruce sways on his feet, reaching for the wall for support. Closes his eyes, tries to separate reality from hallucinations.

It’s not easy.

The click of the light switch and a hand on his shoulder makes him turn. In the soft light of their bedroom Talia looks at him with concern in her eyes.

Bruce, do you want me to call a doctor?, she asks.

Bruce looks back at the bed, but it’s empty now. Selina’s gone. He notices other things, though. A wedding ring on the nightstand. Woman clothes on the chair. An open box of jewelry on the dresser.

“I’m fine”, he answers.

Talia looks at him dubiously, but she doesn’t insist.

He watches her sitting down and start brushing her hair, and suddenly he remembers hundreds of nights just like this one, getting ready for dinners and parties, and how she would always let him choose the necklace to go with her outfit.

(His parents used to this, Bruce remembers. And his father always chose pearls. Said he just loved them so much. It drove his mother crazy sometimes, but she would always wear them when he asked, because she loved him so much.)

He moves towards the jewelry box to indulge into their ritual one more time, but then he hears the laughing of a child and the sound of tiny bare feet running on old, polished wood. He remembers this too, and he knows it’s Damian even before the toddler barges in the room. It was only three weeks ago when Damian took his first walk without their help, but now he’s already running around the manor, giving heart attacks to everyone.

“Mama, mama!”, he screams.

Talia immediately turns towards her son and catches him with a laugh, scooping him up in her arms and spinning him around, making him giggle in that bubbling way that never ceases to amaze Bruce.

Damian is such a cute baby too, all chubby cheeks and big blue eyes, and Bruce knows that every parent says so, but he’s secretly convinced that his son is the most beautiful child in the entire world.

(He knows what Damian looked like as a baby because Talia showed him a photo, once. Refused to give it to him when he asked, told him he didn’t deserved it, that Damian’s childhood was hers, and hers alone.)

“Sorry, little guy’s faster than I expected”, another known voice says.

Jason looks at them from the doorframe, an indulgent smile on his lips. He’s sixteen - seventeen at most - all long hair and clothes getting too short for him day by day. He’s growing tall, almost can look his father straight in the eyes. Bruce doesn’t like that.

(Bruce never saw Jason at sixteen. He only knows the child and the man, not what was in between. Teenager Jason belonged to Talia too.)

“It’s okay”, Talia says, Damian still wriggling on her lap. “I wanted to give him a goodnight kiss anyway.”

Damian babbles something at her and keeps playing with her hair. He’s fascinated with her earrings but by now he knows better than to try and pull them. Talia smiles down at him and cradles him closer so she can pepper his little face with big, smacking kisses, making him squeal in delight.

“If I tried that he would pull all my hair off, the little demon”, Jason huffs, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the fondness in his voice.

Talia only grins and gestures for him to come closer. When Jason comes standing beside her she stands up and brushes a kiss on his cheek, making him blush.

“Thank you for babysitting him tonight, Jason”, she says, handing Damian over to him.

“It’s fine”, he dismisses her. “I really don’t mind.”

Jason takes the child easily, with the familiarity coming from years of experience. Damian settles in his arms with the same confidence, and as if on a cue, he reaches for Jason’s hair and pulls, loving the sound of his big brother’s yelping.

(No white-streak in Jason’s hair, Bruce notices. This Jason has never died, this Jason grew up here, in this house, with loving parents and a bunch of brothers who refused to leave him alone. This Jason is happy.)

*

His heartbeat is slowing too much. Bruce is usually able to control it and adjust his body function accordingly, but now he’s too weak to fight both the poison and his heart’s mutiny.

That’s why he has Alfred, he supposes, as he watches his old friend moving around him with not so much as a frown. He’s always envied that calm.

You weren’t there, he tries to say, but Alfred shushes him like he would with a child.

In my other life, you were the only one missing.

He doesn’t know if he’s speaking or only thinking those words because he can’t tell the difference between the two things anymore. Speaking and thinking. Reality and hallucinations. Fears and hopes. Nightmares and dreams.

Alfred doesn’t answer anyway. Just strokes his cheek with his hand the way he used to do when Bruce was a kid.

Long, long time ago.

*

He’s blind.

He can’t move his hands, he can’t speak.

(By now his blood has completely absorbed the toxin, so the effect of the poison must have reached its peak, Bruce reasons. It’s going to take an hour or a little less from the last inoculation for the antidote to start to work, but it’s going to be a long, long hour.)

He’s not alone.

He feels lips on his chest, hands on his hips. Can’t feel his arms or his own face, but he knows there’s a rope tied around both of his wrists and a piece of something soft and expensive covering his eyes.

“Surprise”, a woman’s voice whispers, soft and full of laugh.

It could be Selina, or Jezebel, or Talia, and Bruce hates that he can’t tell them apart. He should be able to. In another life he would be able to.

“We need to celebrate, Bruce.”

Celebrate what?, he wants to asks, but he can’t speak. He bites down on the piece of leather between his teeth, tries to imagine himself right now, naked and blind and tied up to his own bed, completely defenseless. Thrown at the mercy of the woman he loved (Selina, Jezebel, Talia) and who loved him back (maybe, and not really, and once upon a time).

“Love it’s the best way to die, don’t you think, darling?”, she says.

Warm fingers make him arch and moan and fight against the bonds that force him to suffer this assault without being able to to defend himself or attack back. And he likes it. He loves it. The complete lack of control. The trust. Because he trusts her (them) in a way he never considered possible. In a way that was never possible before.

(Before what?)

There are teeth against his neck and he thinks he recognizes Talia’s mouth, but then long, sharp nails come down scratching his shoulders, and that’s Selina’s way to touch him. Kisses and bites and whispered words in his ears, and he doesn’t know anymore, and he likes the idea of not knowing too.

She tortures him for an hour or a little less.

Then he dies.

Finally.

(Something’s beeping in the distance. Someone’s talking. It’s all white noise, though. He really doesn’t have the strength to pay attention to it. He’s a dead man, he has nothing else to lose now.)

*

The white flash of a sunbeam hits his closed eyes and Bruce jolts wide awaken. He didn’t even know he was sleeping. There are voices around him, all raised in excitement. But it’s not fear. Nothing bad is coming.

The door of his bedroom swings wide open with a little bang of expensive brass knocking against equally expensive wood, and a reproach automatically comes to his mouth, but before he can speak another voice beats him on the spot.

“I’m home!”

And Bruce smiles, scratched furniture completely forgotten. It’s some sort of reflex when Dick’s around.

“Dick”, he calls, standing up to welcome his oldest son.

“In flesh and blood”, Dick grins, as he spins on his heels and bows his head. “Ta-da!”

Bruce laughs and hugs him to his chest hard, like he’s never letting go, and Dick hugs him back with equal determination.

(There were discussions with this Dick too, Bruce knows that much. Shouting matches and weeks of silence, lots of angry words that were never supposed to be spoken. But this Dick never left this house slamming the door behind him. This Dick always knew that Bruce was his father and that he loved him.)

“How’s college?”, Bruce asks after a moment, slowly untangling himself from the hug.

“Good. Not as hard as you pictured it and not as easy as I hoped”, Dick answers, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Nothing I can’t fix”, he adds quickly when Bruce frowns. “I just need a little time to adjust.”

Bruce opens his mouth to offer him his help, but in that moment a delighted screech pierces his ear.

“Dick!”, Cassandra shouts, smiling and showing off her new shiny braces.

“Hey princess!”, Dick shouts back, turning towards his sister and opening up his arms.

Cass doesn’t need further invitations, and she launches himself into his brother’s embrace. She barely comes up to Dick’s chest, but that’s never been a problem for his oldest son. Bruce watches them spinning around the room three times, laughing like crazy, and then the rest of the flock appear on his door.

“Welcome home, Richard”, Talia greets him, Jason and Tim at her side. In her arms Damian squeals happily, reaching for Dick, who reaches right back at him with a big smile, Cassandra still pressed into his side, and Talia promptly holds out the baby for him.

Dick picks Damian up with one arm, fist-bump Jason with his free hand and kisses Tim’s forehead when the kid wraps himself around his waist.

“Hello, family. I’ve missed you”, he laughs, and he’s clearly so happy to see them that Bruce’s heart hurt a little. But it’s not a bad kind of hurt and he approaches the little group from behind, absently ruffling Tim’s hair before placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

He looks at Damian, who’s sitting on Dick’s hip, making grabby hands at his face.

“Dada”, he calls him, trying to reach his hair.

“No”, Dick laughs. “I’m not your dada.”

“Dada”, Damian insists.

“Well, okay then. Whatever you say, little guy”, Dick yields, then he tilts his head and submits himself to Damian’s vicious hairpulling, much to Tim’s disdain.

“You really shouldn’t let him do that”, the kid protests, frowning and looking remarkably like Bruce in doing so, even if he’s only eight years old.

“I know, I know”, Dick answers with a sigh, but he doesn’t do anything to stop his baby brother who, for his part, just keeps pulling his hair calling him dada, dada with genuine contentment.

Dick doesn’t try to correct him again, so Bruce pulls a face and Talia laughs. She knows he’s jealous, and it’s easy for her to laugh it off. Damian never calls anyone else mama but everyone except Tim is dada. Bruce, Dick, Jason, sometimes even Clark, when he comes visiting. There is really no difference for Damian.

Bruce’s suspicion is that Damian does it on purpose. They all find it so cute when he calls them dada, so they’re all incapable of refusing him anything when he addresses them like that, and Bruce thinks that’s exactly why Damian doesn’t bother with using their real names, even though he knows them very well by now. Then again, Damian is only fourteen months old and maybe Bruce is reading too much into it.

(He and Dick never talked about it, and Damian would deny there’s even something to talk about. But Bruce remembers the first time he saw them together, remembers how his first thought was that Damian looked different from how he remembered him. A lot less like him, a lot more like Dick. It was a crazy thought, but also a legitimate one. After all he knows better than anyone else that fatherhood doesn’t have anything to do with blood.)

*

“Master Bruce?”

“Mh?”

“Would it be too much of an inconvenience for you to wake up?”

“Mh.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wake up anyway.”

“Mh.”

He keeps dreaming.

*

Lowered head, tensed shoulders, fingers pressed against his eyelids. He must look like a living dead. Which is fair. The migraines are killing him.

The floor creaks under familiar footsteps, and when he raises his head from the work on his desk, Cassandra is sitting on the floor of his bedroom, fighting with the ribbons of her pointe shoes.

“Need space”, she only says, and Bruce doesn’t protest. He knows she loves to dance in a lot of strange places and he’s not surprised to learn that his bedroom is one of them.

“Do you also need the stereo?”, he asks. She shakes her head no, and again, he’s not surprised at all. Cassandra is the only one of his children who shares his love for silence. She could do anything without emitting a sound, from running to dancing. It’s quite disturbing sometimes, but he tries not to let her know.

(But she does know. Always. Even - especially - without words. That’s probably why she understands him better than her brothers.)

The quiet lasts all but five minutes, then Tim gently knocks on the door, shy smile and big eyes hidden behind a mop of hair.

“Hi. Sorry”, he starts, then he bits his lips. “Are you busy? If you aren’t, can you help me with my homeworks?”

And Bruce smiles because yes, that’s something he can always do. Would always do. Be there for them, take care of problems too big for his children.

(If only they would let him do so.)

“Of course”, he answers, pushing away the papers from his desk to make space for Tim’s math book.

He spends the entire afternoon that way, with a migraine threatening to split his head in two, Tim sitting on his lap, and Cassandra dancing quietly around them.

(This Tim shouldn’t be here, he knows that. He had parents, and a home, and Bruce had no right to call him his son, not back then. Same goes for Cassandra. “Father” at this age was a word for another man, not a good one, but still not Bruce. They all came to him through tragedies and heartaches, but a dream is a dream is a dream. He’ll remember this as one of the nicest day-that-never-happened he ever had.)

*

It’s morning. A new dawn’s shining over Gotham, and Bruce is alone again, standing in the wet grass. The side effects of the poison are getting weaker by the hours, the antidote worked. The fever is almost gone, the headache is still there, but he’s healing faster than expected, so he’s not going to complain too much.

The new day didn’t take all remnants of the night away from him, though. If he closes his eyes he can still see them. Dreams or hallucinations, he can’t really say anymore, but they were real for a few hours. Few hours worth a lifetime.

He feels Alfred approaching more than hearing him.

“You should be in bed, Master Bruce”, he only says.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Sorry, Alfred. I needed to get out of there.”

Too many people in that bedroom, he wants to say, and he could actually say it. As crazy as it’d sound, Alfred would understand it in his usual mysterious, sort-of-omniscient way.

But Bruce just doesn’t want to share it. Not yet.

*

It’s night again, and he’s wandering the halls of his own house like a ghost. Patrol is out of question at least for a few days, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself in the meanwhile. So he walks. And he listens. There are always a lot of noises in old houses, and Wayne Manor is a very normal house on that regard.

The creaks of old wood and the ticking of the ancient clocks. Tree branches brushing against the windows, the distant calls of the owls hunting, and then something else. Feeble whimpers behind a closed door.

Bruce stops in his tracks and frowns. The hallucinations should be totally gone by now, his blood is clean, is head is finally clear. Even the migraines are gone.

He sighs and opens the door of Damian’s room anyway. Real or not, he could never turn his back on a child crying alone in the dark.

And Damian’s right there, of course. Holed up under the covers, tiny fingers gripping the sheets as hard as he knows how. He’s older now. Four, maybe five years old, blue eyes round with fear, his bottom lip is trembling, and tears are obviously on their way.

“There’s a monster under the bed, daddy”, he whispers to him, and Bruce knows it’s true. Knows what it looks like too. Because there’s always a Batman to a Bruce Wayne, and hallucinated worlds make no exception. It makes sense that he would refuse to be set aside and forgotten, even if only for a night.

He sits on the bed and carefully strokes the child’s cheek in attempt to reassure him. He’s not good with it, even if he should be. After all he’s seen this Damian’s birth, he was there through all his life. His first laugh, his first word, his first steps, his first day of school.

(Never for his first kill, or for the first blow that showed him what happens when you are not up to expectations.)

He helped changing diapers and singing lullabies, soothing temper tantrums and kissing scratched knees better. He was there for all the little things, bedtime stories and night terrors and the first time in the snow. He taught him how to ride a bike and how to tie his shoes, how to count up to ten and how to write his own name.

(How to disarm a man three times bigger than him, what bones are easier to break and what spots hurts the most when hit in a fight.)

Damian looks up at him, scared and defenseless, and the only thing he can think about is that Damian never called him daddy and he never would, not even under torture.

This Damian is Bruce’s son, not Batman’s.

...and Bruce doesn’t know what to say to him.

So he doesn’t say anything.

He closes his eyes, feeling a little guilty, and when he reopens them the bed is empty. His Damian was never there.

Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone.

Not too far away, though, he thinks with a smile.

He can always visit.

And most importantly, they can always come back.