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Stephanie only goes to investigate because it sounds like there’s a bear in the kitchen.
Even with all the weird shit that goes on around Wayne manor, that kind of noise is unusual, and knowing the family, it might actually be a bear (Bruce lets Damian keep freaking Batcow as a pet, after all). Besides, none of the banging or clattering that Stephanie is currently hearing ever happens when Alfred is in the kitchen, so he’d probably thank her for interfering. She is not expecting to find out that Bruce is the source of the clamor, however.
He’s standing by the kitchen island. With his arm in a cast and sling. Wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants, barefoot, with a too-small white tank on. His hair is sticking up in random tufts too.
It’s been a while since she’s been at the manor, or on patrol, it’s true, but. But she is still surprised by this. I’m gone for two weeks because of school, and this happens, Stephanie thinks, feeling exasperated. She almost turns around, but then thinks: Alfred’s cookies. If he’s grateful enough, he may just bake Stephanie cookies. While she wouldn’t usually ask Alfred to do extra work, it’s been a week (or two), and she’s just finished finals, so… “Bruce?”
Bruce turns around, and wow— his pupils are really dilated. So he’s on pain killers then. A lot of them. He blinks. “Stephanie?” he asks, as if he’s not quite sure she’s real. Oh boy, Stephanie thinks. Oh boy oh man, maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.
“Yeah, hi, Bruce. Are you supposed to be down here?” she asks calmly.
Bruce blinks again, and actually looks sheepish. “No,” he admits— Stephanie thinks he’s trying to whisper, but it’s not coming out like that— “but I wanted peanut butter.” It’s then that she sees the family-sized jar of peanut butter that’s resting on the kitchen counter in front of Bruce. Huh.
He seems to take her silence as confusion. Bruce quickly elaborates: “I wasn’t actually going to go anywhere else. I was just… hungry. But peanut butter’s kind of hard to open one-handed.” He gently flaps his broken arm and blinks again.
Stephanie sighs. Well, that does explain the noise. “If I open this and let you have some, will you go back to bed?” If only she hadn’t left her phone in Cass’s room. Bruce looks between her, and the jar of peanut butter which has been mocking him for the past five minutes.
He sighs. “As long as you don’t tell Alfred I was down here, sure.”
Stephanie does her best not to laugh— not that Bruce will probably remember that she was laughing at him (and that does tug at something in her chest; not her heart though, of course not). “Okay, deal. Now hand over that jar, Batman.”
Bruce rolls over when his phone buzzes.
Awkwardly, and still half asleep, he shoots out his arm to feel around for it. He squints at the jarring brightness of its screen, for a moment, before his eyes adjust. He sees that he has a new text message. He opens the messaging app, and sees that it’s from Jason. Despite himself, his heart leaps. Fool, he thinks.
Heard about your arm, is what Jason has written. Oh. Well… that’s a bit unexpected. But good. Very good. Bruce smiles faintly.
I’m off patrol for the next three weeks, he replies. Bruce goes to put down the phone— he’s exhausted (mostly from the pain killers)— but thinks better of it. Come by the cave so we can work out a temporary patrol schedule. He holds his breath. Jason starts typing.
Whatever.
Bruce frowns. See? This is why we don’t jump to conclusions. He goes to put the phone down.
As long as I’m not working with Dickface or the replacement.
Bruce breathes.
“Shit.”
Duke pauses, one headphone out. He had been walking from the library to his room— about to pass by the entryway— when he hears the curse. Curious (and vaguely concerned), he backtracks, and peeks his head around the corner. Bruce is leaning toward the entryway mirror, a tie draped around his neck. He’s scowling. Ah.
“Hey,” Duke says, cautiously. He still feels weird when he catches Bruce at times like this. It’s— he’s been at the manor for a while now, but it seems like it will always be awkward when he finds Batman having… a human moment. Bruce looks over at him, and sighs.
“Duke,” he greets, reluctantly. “Would you mind…”
Carefully, Duke tries not to look surprised. But he still blinks. “I can’t promise that it’ll be any good, but sure, I can tie it.” Bruce smiles faintly at this, and the tension in Duke’s chest collapses.
“We’ll have to remedy that later. But for now…” Bruce steps back from the mirror and hands Duke the troublesome tie. “I’m running late, or I’d not bother you,” Bruce explains. Duke translates that into: ‘I don’t need help. But I am grateful just the same.’ He’s gotten a lot better at Bruce-speak (as most of the family calls it) since he first moved in.
They’re silent for a moment, as Duke fumbles through the motions and Bruce pretends not to be impatient. But when Duke steps back, and lets Bruce turn, to give himself an assessing look in the mirror, the older man nods. “Not bad. Better than what Dick can do, on some days,” he says.
Duke startles at that. But… he supposes, Dick being Dick, that’s not actually that surprising. “Oh, well… thanks?” he says, unsure.
Bruce grunts. “I have to run— Alfred’s waiting outside with the car. But remind me later: tie-tying lessons.”
Duke nods. “Yeah, got it. See you later, Bruce.” Bruce gives him a small wave as he’s walking away. Duke stands in the entryway for a few moments after, thinking.
The sound of someone using the Batcomputer keyboard is distracting. It is not usually that noticeable over the other sounds of the cave. But tonight, the slowness of the typing is just unusual enough to annoy Damian. Or maybe that is his concern for Father— no. It is definitely the painfully-slow sound of his typing, Damian decides. He sighs quietly, and sheathes his katana.
Father is sitting in front of the computer, scowling deeply. Damian clears his throat, and Batman looks up. Only, Batman is not wearing the suit, but a pair of sweatpants, thick socks, and a t-shirt. His arm is in a sling. “Father,” Damian greets coolly. ‘What are you doing down here?’ he doesn’t ask.
“Damian,” Father replies. They lapse into silence, and Father starts to look to the computer again. Just as his fingers reach for the keyboard, Damian snaps: “Can you not make Drake do that?” Bruce’s hand pauses over the keyboard, before he places it loosely on the desk.
“I could,” Bruce agrees slowly. Damian barely suppresses an eyeroll. That means that Father hadn’t thought of that. One thing Damian has not yet gotten used to is how many things Father does himself. Grandfather would never deign to transcribe his own paperwork, case notes, or patrol reports. Especially not if his arm was broken.
“Well, Father,” Damian says stiffly, “the sound of your laborious typing has distracted me from my katana practice. And if you are not going to call Drake back to the cave, then I shall have to write the report for you.” He approaches the desk chair where Bruce is seated, fully expecting the man to get up and move. He does not.
Instead, Bruce only wheels himself back to make room for his son. Damian stops beside him. He raises one brow coolly. Father offers him a faint smile, then pats his knee. “If you’re going to write the report, Damian, then shouldn’t you know what it’s about?” he asks.
Damian blinks. He… he had not considered that. Something in his chest suddenly feels warm and soft. Like a kitten. “I… I suppose so,” he concedes. He walks forward and sits on Father’s lap. Once he’s settled— with Father’s unbroken arm wrapped around his waist— Damian prompts: “Tell me what I am writing about.”
As a fellow coffee addict, Tim sympathizes.
It’s been a few days since Bruce broke his arm, and Alfred has been enforcing his illness-and-injury policy. Which means extra bedrest. Which means no coffee. But Bruce, who is stubborn about most things, has apparently decided to risk Alfred’s ire by leaving his room to come down to the kitchen. Where Tim is sitting, eating a quick breakfast before running off to school.
He’s texting Connor, when he hears Bruce walk into the room. That either means that Bruce wants Tim to know that he’s there, or he’s still not feeling completely recovered. Tim’s not sure which it is. Either way, he shuts off his phone, and puts down the piece of toast he’d been holding errantly in the other hand. “You’re in so much shit if Alfred sees you,” he says easily.
Bruce quirks a brow. “You will be too if he finds out that you saw me, and didn’t stop me.”
Tim blinks. He has a point. Okay then. Tim looks around conspiratorially. “Fine. But let’s make this quick. I have to be at school soon, and you need to get back upstairs.”
Bruce laughs. He walks forward, and takes a seat next to Tim at the island. “You already know what I want,” he says. Tim grins. Once a coffee lover, always a coffee lover.
“Yeah, I do. But I’m only getting you a small mug. I may be an enabler, Bruce, but I’m not gonna risk you not resting.” Tim gives Bruce a pointed once-over. The man offers Tim a ‘who me?’ look, which… is amusing. Even if it’s utter bullshit.
After a moment, Bruce sighs. Despite himself, Tim relaxes a bit. That’s one less thing to worry about, at least. “I’ll take whatever you’ll give me,” Bruce says easily. “Just make it quick.”
Tim laughs. He takes a mug out of the cabinet and goes to pour some coffee. “If Alfred catches you— which I am not ruling out— this never happened.”
Bruce stumbles into the cave’s locker room. As best he can, he strips— the cast makes this rather awkward. But he manages. Kind of. Pain killers are the worst. Okay, no. Actually, broken arms are the worst. He turns on one of the showers. It’s only a few minutes later that he hears Dick call, “Bruce?” His eldest son’s voice sounds alarmingly close to the shower stall.
“What?” Bruce snaps.
“Okay good, you’re still standing. Alfred told me to come supervise,” Dick responds. He sounds far too amused for Bruce’s comfort. Bruce sighs quietly, knowing that the running water will cover it.
“I am capable of taking a shower, Dick.”
Dick hums. “Sure you are. But Alfie also just gave you a shit-ton of pain killers, so… yeah. I’ll be out here.” Bruce hears a dramatic thump— Dick letting him know that he’s determined to not go anywhere. Great.
Bruce groans. “Fine.” He goes back to showering, and tries not to feel too self-conscious. But it’s hard not to when he knows that his son is standing guard close by… A few minutes later, he’s done. The awkward silence that follows after Bruce turns off the shower nearly kills him— Joker and Darkseid’s attempts be damned.
“I’m gonna toss a towel over the top,” Dick finally says.
“I hate everything,” Bruce grumbles, as the promised towel appears. He dries off as best he can one-handed, and steps from the shower. Bruce is very careful to keep a tight hand on the flimsy-feeling cloth around his waist.
His eldest keeps his gaze averted. But Dick is still clearly amused. “It’s fine, Bruce. Remember how many times you’ve done this for me?” he asks.
Bruce flushes. “That’s different. I’m your father!”
Dick bursts into laughter. Bruce, somehow, feels even more embarrassed. “That’s the most dad thing I think I’ve ever heard you say,” Dick says, still wheezing.
“Why did I ever take you in?” Bruce grumbles.
Dick tosses a pair of boxers at him. “Because you, Bruce, are actually a huge softie.”
Bruce sighs. “Alright, fine. I only regret this sometimes. Happy?”
Dick laughs. “Sure, Dad. Sure.” He walks over to the lockers, and sits on the bench, facing away from Bruce. “Let me know when you’re decent, and then I’ll help you get dressed.”
“Move over.” Cass keeps her voice firm. He usually listens better when her voice is firm. Sure enough, Batman concedes, with a groan. He fumbles the Batmobile keys from the belt, and tosses them to Black Bat. She does not comment on his lack of aim. The aftermath of fighting Killer Croc is usually exhausting enough without broken bones.
“I could’ve used the autopilot,” Batman grumbles. Cass cocks her head at him in a way that means: idiot. Bruce huffs. “What about your motorcycle?” Cass shrugs: I’ll come back for it later. She unlocks the vehicle, and strides silently to the driver-side door. Bruce slides into the passenger’s seat, hissing a bit as his arm jostles.
Cass purses her lips, feeling a sharp stab of bitter flow through her gut. Worry, she thinks. That’s the word for it. Batman, as if he’s sensing her thoughts, offers a reassuring sort-of grimace. It’s supposed to be a smile, Black Bat is pretty sure. “I’m fine,” he says.
“‘Fine,’” Cass mimics, adding a growl to her voice. Bruce laughs. Cass makes sure he’s buckled up before she takes off into the night (a little jerkily). Although she can drive, it is not often that she’s able to drive this vehicle. Damian will be jealous— he’s driven it even less than Cass.
“Okay, I will be fine,” Batman amends.
Cass nods sharply. “Good.” I need you to be.