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Bruce couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he paused for breath, all he could think about was how Damian had looked tied to a post in the corner of that dusty warehouse.
This wasn’t the first time one of his children had been kidnapped – he’d almost lost count, at this point – and it wasn’t even the first time Damian had been taken. But that had been as Robin. His son was free to bite and claw and stab with skills a twelve-year-old shouldn’t know when he was Robin.
It was a different matter altogether when he was Damian Wayne.
Damian had only been there for seven hours when Gordon had called Bruce, telling him they’d found his son. It was honestly a testament to how terrible kidnappers they’d been, really. Bruce was just grateful they weren’t more experienced, hadn’t been more competent in hiding their tracks. And most of all, that they were only after money, not revenge against Bruce – they hadn’t hurt Damian beyond scrapes and bruises from knocking him out with a drug and carting him around.
Playing the part of a slightly more adjusted pre-teen, Damian had run up to Bruce the second he’d seen him, relief stark on his face – for someone who knew him, that was. “Father,” he’d greeted Bruce, voice perfectly normal without even a hint of a wobble. “I told them they were terrible at kidnapping and would be found within five hours. I see you’ve proven yourself incapable of even that.”
Bruce, without a word, had tugged Damian into a hug. It’d been what was possibly their first hug in public that wasn’t for show, and the first hug that had been accepted (barely) without threat of bodily harm. Damian had frozen up against his body, not anticipating this turn of events in the slightest, but without a word gingerly wrapped his tiny arms around Bruce’s figure. A flash had gone off behind them before Montoya had yelled at the photographer, confiscated the camera.
Damian was tiny. He couldn’t even reach all the way around Bruce. And someone had thought it fit to kidnap him. Bruce wished he could’ve taken this on as Batman, if only to pound into those men exactly what happened when someone tried to hurt his family.
All in all, it had been a rather unremarkable kidnapping. Bruce couldn’t figure out what part of it was keeping him up. He hadn’t even had to call to inform the rest of the family; only Alfred knew what had happened, and if it were up to Damian, it was going to stay that way.
He was apparently exceedingly embarrassed he’d “let himself” get kidnapped by “bumbling sacks of ineptitude”.
Alfred had merely raised an eyebrow at the comment, and handed over a cup of tea with a neutral sounding hum. Damian had spent the duration of his tea rambling, picking out points where the kidnappers could’ve gone better.
“Are you intending on abducting children yourself, Damian?” Bruce had finally had to ask him, partly amused, partly concerned.
Damian had huffed, in that snobbish way of his that meant that the explanation he wasn’t going to give was well above the intelligence rating of whoever had just addressed him. Or rather, that was Tim’s description of it. Dick’s was far more likely to get himself stabbed.
“I just think that criminals ought to be better at their trade,” he’d said to Bruce.
Bruce, now, reached up to the nightstand to take a sip out of the glass of water. Maybe his throat was dry; it’d spent a lot of the day dry, but that was more so out of fear than dehydration. Nevertheless, drinking water would probably help.
He lay back down to try falling back asleep. Had this been before, he would’ve just gone down to the Cave to work on whatever open cases there still were, crashing in front of the Batcomputer when his body couldn’t take it anymore.
That had been put to a stop around the same time he’d stopped Tim from doing the same. Now there was nothing to do but try and force his mind to stop whirring for a few hours.
The number of times his children – or Bruce himself – had gotten abducted during a gala probably said something about them. He wished it said enough to warrant getting rid of them entirely, but they were a necessary evil, as Alfred had once commented to him.
Next time he’d vet the staff better. He’d started doing background checks since before Dick had started going to galas, but cameras had been installed absolutely everywhere after Dick’s first kidnapping. Jason’s first kidnapping had led to all non-guest personnel carrying IDs. Tim’s first had resulted in fingerprint scanners, which had been rather controversial until Tim’s second kidnapping.
Cass and Steph had been kidnapped together, one memorable time. He’d made all the kids carry trackers after that.
Damian, at some point during his capture, had broken his tracker. Now Bruce was going to have to find a better method of implanting them, because the cold sinking in his gut at the lack of signal coming from the device wasn’t something he wished to experience ever again.
The door squeaked as it opened, and Bruce was instantly awake, all cobwebs and half formed thoughts gone from his mind.
Tiny footsteps padded forward, soundless but for the whisper of clothing.
Bruce didn’t dare sit up; he turned to the side to watch as Damian walked up to the bed and eyed him warily, watching his reaction.
“Damian?” he asked when it became clear that the boy wouldn’t be the first to speak.
“I tried counting sheep, but I still cannot sleep,” Damian stated, voice full volume.
“Have you tried reading a book?” Bruce said.
Damian tutted. “I’m not allowed any activities when I’m meant to be sleeping. You came up with that rule.”
Oh. Instead of responding, Bruce shuffled back a little to make space on the bed, and lifted the covers back slightly. He patted the now-empty spot. “Would you like to sleep here?”
Damian blinked at him.
Bruce continued, “I can’t sleep either. I’ve found that it’s easier when there’s someone there with you.”
Damian’s face scrunched up in horror. “Father, I am not the same as one of your night-time dalliances!”
Bruce winced, immediately regretting his choice of wording. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “We’ve had a… rough day. I’d feel better if I knew you were safe.” When he saw that Damian was close to budging, he added, “Dick’s done the same, countless times. Still does, in fact.” Maybe it wasn’t strictly true, considering that the last time he and Dick had slept in the same bed, it’d been because Dick had been sleeping off a concussion, and Bruce had had to wake him every half hour. He’d gotten little sleep that night, or the next.
Damian tilted his head, and without a word, scrambled up Bruce’s bed. Bruce hadn’t realised this before he’d taken Jason in, but his bed was a climb. He would’ve replaced it had it not been for the fact that by the time Cass and Tim had been comfortable enough to come to him for nightmares and the like, they’d already been tall enough to scramble under the covers with ease.
Damian wasn’t going to reach his growth spurt for another couple of years. Maybe a lower bed was what he needed to feel more welcome in coming to Bruce.
“Okay?” Bruce asked, tucking the covers back around his son.
This part of parenting had never felt as awkward as it currently did, with both of them rock still and silent. Damian wasn’t going to move an inch in his direction, unaccustomed as he was. It was down to Bruce.
He breathed in, remembering what Dick had told him about Damian. Telegraph your movements; he doesn’t like sudden things when he’s feeling vulnerable. Don’t lower down to his level – he finds that insulting. Never talk about eating Batcow; that’s how Jay got that scar on his leg. If he's unusually condescending, it means something's up. If he isn't condescending, it means something's up. If you need him to do something, tell him Cass does it.
“Cassandra also has nightmares,” Bruce said conversationally. He knew Cass never minded sharing her history of nightmares or experiences with her siblings, but he’d talk to her anyway. It’d been much too long since he’d spoken with his daughter. “She would often go to Barbara, and then after I adopted her, she began coming to me.”
Damian shifted. His expression was thoughtful; he was fitting this in to the schema he’d built of his sister.
“It’s more effective if we do this.” Bruce turned to the side towards Damian, pillowing his head with an arm, and pulled Damian to his torso. “Alright?” he asked.
Damian was stock still in his arms, and Bruce worried for a moment that he was about to lash out, run off. One step forward, three steps backward with his youngest, as always seemed to be the case.
But limb by limb, Damian slowly melted against Bruce’s chest. He didn’t say anything in response to Bruce’s words, but Bruce didn’t mind. He was just happy that they were moving forward.
Seizing an opportunity, Bruce ran his fingers through Damian’s thick curls, watching as the hair straightened against the pull from his fingers before reverting back to their original form when he let go. Bruce held his breath, but Damian didn’t protest.
“Father,” Damian said suddenly, again with no concept of a quiet voice, jerking Bruce out of the doze he’d slipped into.
Bruce grunted.
“You weren’t actually incompetent. I gave you ten hours to get there, not five.” His words were muffled as he hid his face from Bruce.
Bruce felt the tiniest of smiles growing on his face. He squeezed Damian tight, just once, before settling his hand back to its previous position. Maybe Damian hadn’t been as unaffected by the day's ordeal as he’d appeared. Sleep was coming to him now, something in Bruce soothed.
“Father?” Damian said, struggling to free himself from Bruce’s grasp. “I’m still not tired.”
Bruce sighed, deciding on breaking his own rule. “Grab a book from the drawer there. I’ll read to you.”
“Your voice sounds growly now. It’s rather unpleasant. I shall read to you.”
Growly. His son had just used the word ‘growly’. He needed to text Dick before he forgot, but Bruce was out before Damian had finished the first sentence.