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The serum is one of the nastiest yet. Bruce lies down in the dark of his bedroom, perfectly healthy except for the fact that he knows he cannot lie, cannot even obscure the truth, and it burns him with vulnerability. If anyone asked him what he knew about Batman now, he’d be forced to admit his secret identity without a shred of hesitation. He could voice his greatest fears, weaknesses, or most secret dreams at the drop of a hat; all the things he’s never put into words before and keeps tucked close between his ribs.
His sons will protect him as he recovers, he knows.
He hopes.
If they refuse then Alfred will do it. It’s just for the night, after all. He’s been assured the effects will wear off by morning.
He lies there, seething and shaking and too adrenaline-filled to rest, for a long time. He is still wide awake when the lighted Manor fades to pitch black and footsteps press faintly on the ground outside his door. The knob twists and opens without a sound. Bruce tenses in anticipation as the hulking form of his second son slips into the room.
Jason, he doesn’t want to admit, is the one he’s been most worried about. What kind of ammunition is his son going to ask for? What will he make Bruce admit, knowing he is incapable of a lie?
Jason shuffles forward, hesitating a bit when he notices Bruce’s eyes already on him, but ultimately continuing until he stands at the side of the bed. Even now, with the implicit threat of rejection and anger at a wrong answer, Bruce can’t help but feel awed that Jason is here, alive, and in his room. Jason is home.
“Hey, old man,” Jason whispers gruffly.
“Hi,” Bruce returns.
There’s a long pause. Jason seems to be working himself up to something, and Bruce stays perfectly still on the bed, afraid to interfere. Of everyone, Jason probably deserves the truth about whatever he wants to know.
Jason takes a deep breath, shoulders rising with tension as his son braces himself for… for what, exactly? Bruce’s concern grows as Jason’s silence stretches. Finally, his son breaks. He leans forward in a defeated posture, head in his hands. “Bruce,” he says, “what do you think of me?”
Bruce’s breath catches in his chest. It’s like a shot to the heart.
He was prepared for betrayal. For Jason bringing up things he knows Bruce would never want to talk about or even think about again. Alternatively, he was prepared for vicious accusations and unfair interpretations of his words. He’d even considered that perhaps Jason needed to confess something and wanted his honest reaction.
It never occurred to him that Jason would ask this. That Jason doesn’t know.
“I love you,” he says. It comes out with a waver; his voice isn’t meant for emotions and buckles under the weight of them.
Jason stares. He’s so young, so caught off guard, that Bruce wants to wrap him in blankets and never let him go.
Bruce’s mouth continues unbidden: “You came back to me. You’re alive and you’re here and that makes me so, so happy.”
“But the killing,” Jason says, looking lost.
“I don’t like that,” Bruce admits. “We’re criminals using no due process; it’s not okay for us to decide who lives and who dies without the law on our side. If you ever get caught I don’t want you to suffer for it. You shouldn’t have to do that. And I don’t want to think about you killing people because deep down you’re still just my little boy who loves to read and learn and fights for everything he deserves and is so good.”
“I’ve changed a lot since then,” Jason says, and his voice in the darkness is filled with irritation and bitterness and a hint of wistfulness like smoke from a distant fire.
Bruce turns his head away as his heart breaks, unable to stop the words flowing out of him. “I know. I still love you.”
The pause this time is deafening.
“So you really want me to… stay?” Jason sounds hesitant still, as if he’s been thinking about this for a while. As if he’s been afraid of what Bruce might do.
“Please stay,” Bruce whispers. “I miss you.”
Jason hiccoughs, and suddenly Bruce realizes that he’s crying.
Is he really such a failure of a parent that these words are so earthshaking? Bruce thinks back on their interactions after Jason’s resurrection and realizes that there may have been more misunderstandings on both sides than he ever realized. The guilt washes over him in an unstoppable tsunami and he has to fight to get his head above water before he can even consider a way to respond.
While he’s still clawing his way back to the present, Jason awkwardly begins to reach out and then immediately draws back again and shuffles to his feet. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay. Um. Thanks.”
He flees the room after that, letting Bruce sink back into his own whirl of emotions. He and Jason have both made some mistakes, but perhaps now things will be better. Jason has had the most issues in the last several years, Bruce reassures himself. He’s done alright with the others at least.
He forces his mind to be quiet and closes his eyes again. With the confirmation that Jason is still here, maybe now he can finally get a little sleep.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Bruce is startled out of a light doze when he notices a new presence nearby. He opens his eyes to find Tim in the act of closing the door behind him. His pale face is lit briefly by moonlight from the window before he shifts into the shadows at his side.
Is he here to interrogate him about something? It’s unlikely, since he already seems to know everything about everyone as it is. Bruce tries to hide his confusion as Tim picks his way across the carpet and over to the bed.
“Bruce?”
“Hello.” He stifles a yawn. “Do you need something?”
“I just… can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” says Bruce without an ounce of hesitation. He trusts Tim with his whole being, and whatever Tim wants to know will be alright as long as it doesn’t kick start another fit of teenage rebellion or angst. He’s had enough of both those things to last him a lifetime.
Tim visibly steels himself and opens his mouth. “How do you feel about me?”
If Jason’s question was like a gunshot, Tim’s hits with the power of an armor-piercing sniper round. It’s an unexpected ambush in the night, blindsiding him out of the darkness. The wound in his chest that was slowly beginning to scab over after Jason’s visit has violently ripped open again, tearing into him and making his heart bleed anew.
“I love you,” he says, wretched. “I’m so glad you’re here in the Manor with me.”
Tim’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Of course.” Bruce’s torn heart has sunk so low it may as well be at the bottom of Gotham harbor. “You saved me, Tim, and you’re brilliant and determined and my son. How could I not love you?”
“I just… no one’s ever…” Tim stumbles over his words, a rare occurrence. His eyes shine wetly in the darkness and his lower lip trembles.
Bruce thinks over what Tim has said, what he knows of the Drakes, and the state he himself was in when Tim first forced himself into the Manor. He does not like the conclusions he reaches.
“I want to give you a hug,” he says, unable to stem the truth.
Tim’s breath hitches and he nods, coming closer as Bruce sits up on the bed. He folds Tim into his arms, as safe and secure as he can make them, and holds him close. “I love you,” he murmurs again. “I want to keep you here and safe. I want you to be happy and learn and grow, but never go so far that you don’t come back and visit. You are always welcome here.”
Tim shudders and wets his shoulder with tears, hands clutching tightly to his nightshirt while Bruce holds him steady. They stay that way for a long stretch of time, gathering themselves as best they can. “Thank you,” Tim whispers into Bruce’s skin before pulling away again. “I’m… I’m going back to bed.” He sniffs. “Good night. I–I love you, too.”
“Oh,” Bruce mouths, though no sound comes out of his mouth. His world is still stabilizing again long after Tim slips away out the door. Bruce sinks back down onto the bed, savoring the echoes of Tim’s words in the air. He can’t remember the last time he heard them directed his way.
They feel nice.
Bruce doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep again until he is waking up to the quietest of knocks upon his door. “Come in,” he manages vaguely, already having identified the visitor. A new silhouette, still impossibly small and young, approaches him with feigned confidence.
“Father.”
He nods, propping himself up on one elbow. “Damian.”
His heart, already bleeding and buried, sinks a little further. One is happenstance, twice is coincidence, and three times is a pattern. But Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he knows, he knows, that Damian still struggles with finding his place in the Manor.
It turns out that seeing it coming does nothing to lessen the pain when Damian’s question spears him like a javelin. “Do you want me here?”
”Yes,” Bruce says plaintively. “Yes, I want you here very much.”
Damian takes a tiny, cautious step closer. “Because… why?”
Bruce wants to cry. “Because you are my son and I love you. I want to give you a good life that makes you happy.”
Damian blinks slowly, looking more uncertain than Bruce has ever seen him.
“What about Robin? My usefulness?” He twists the javelin further in, but oh does Bruce deserve it if his own child still has to ask him this after spending nearly two years in his care.
“I don’t need you to be useful,” he says forcefully. “I just need you to be Damian. Robin makes you happy, I thought…”
“Oh. Oh.” Damian looks stunned.
Bruce wants to reach for him, but his son has a difficult relationship with touch on the best of days and he doesn’t dare risk it.
Damian takes a deep breath and stands up straighter. “Father,” he says very formally, “If I wished to pursue more art-related study, would you approve? Would you… be proud?” He ends in a whisper.
“Yes,” says Bruce, eyes wet and throat tight. “Yes, I would be so proud for my son to be an artist.” It’s such a small, simple request. Would Talia have denied him this in the League? She must have, he thinks, for Damian to be so frightened now.
Damian’s shoulders slump in clear relief. Before Bruce can come up with the right combination of words to give him, he has already nodded in a professional acknowledgement and practically run out of the room.
Bruce lets his head fall back on the pillow in despair.
The failure tears at him like a wild animal. How could he have ever let any of them go a day without knowing? How could he let them doubt for a second? He gives up on sleep for the moment and sits against the backboard, head in his hands.
He is the worst father to ever adopt a child. How much has he harmed his boys without even realizing it? How much better off would they be with someone kind, someone normal, someone who hugs them every day and ruffles their hair and enforces typical bedtimes?
Bruce sinks deeper. Every pump of his heart spews his own poisoned blood into the street.
He’s lying down again, the faintest traces of light changing the horizon from pitch black to heather gray, when the window slides open. He flinches, tense, when Dick kneels beside the bed.
“Woah, B, you don’t look so good,” he says. “Are you feeling sick? Any new symptoms we should consider?”
“No,” he gasps out. Three times is a pattern, his brain reminds him. Patterns continue indefinitely. They never stop at just three. “Just a bad night.” He attempts to wipe whatever expression he’s wearing off his face. “What’s going on, chum?”
A pattern, a pattern, a pattern.
“I…” Dick hesitates.
No.
“I wanted to ask you a question.”
Please, no.
“Ask me anything you want,” he says hoarsely, heart speeding up with his terror. “I trust you.”
Dick freezes for a second, staring at him in something like awe, before he draws in a deep breath and his face turns solemn again. “Why’d you raise me, B? Why let me stay all those years in limbo between family and guest? You never adopted me like the others. I just don’t understand.”
That’s it. The final support holding up Bruce’s composure snaps like a twig under the pressure and his eyes shut involuntarily when his face contorts, unable to stop it.
He folds in on himself and sobs.
“What the—! B? What’s going on?” He lunges for his son before he can run or call for help and clings desperately as though Dick will be able to absorb his muddled pool of love and sorrow through touch alone.
“I love you,” he chokes out for the fourth time that night. “I love you, I love you. You’re like a damn sun that brought me light after fifteen years of nothing but shadows. You’re my child. You have to know that; please tell me that you know.”
He and Jason have been estranged and fighting for years. Tim has a lot of his own issues after his less-than-stellar upbringing, and Damian even more so. But if Dick doesn’t know… if Dick, his firstborn, beloved son, the one who cracked him open in the first place all those years ago so his old grief could drain out, the one who filled the whole Manor with new life, doesn’t know how much Bruce loves him, he might just crumble away into dust and nothingness right here.
“Bruce.” Dick trails off, bringing his arms up and around to return the hug. It isn’t a reassurance when he hasn’t said the words. Bruce clings tighter and feels his tears running faster, trying his best not to dissolve apart in Dick’s arms.
“Do you want papers for it?” he asks almost frantically, scrambling for a way to fix this all somehow. “I’ve had up-to-date copies in my bottom desk drawer since you were twelve. I—wasn’t sure you’d want them.”
There’s a startled gasp from Dick and his arms spasm around Bruce’s sides. “Maybe not then,” Dick allows. “But I… I want them now.”
“We’ll send them in today,” Bruce promises. He already feels steadier with a concrete goal to accomplish. “After breakfast. As soon as possible.”
Just then a new sound reaches his ears: footsteps coming quickly, not bothering with quiet or decorum. The door swings open to reveal Alfred surrounded by his other three sons, all looking extremely concerned. Someone must have set off the family-wide alarm.
“What seems to be the matter, Master Dick,” says Alfred, poised as ever.
Bruce feels Dick gesture in some way, but he’s too busy attempting to regulate his breathing back to a reasonable pace to interpret it further.
“He’s crying,” Dick says. “I thought maybe the serum was having unexpected side effects.”
“That is a most unusual occurrence.” Alfred’s voice is touched with concern. “Fortunately, I have come prepared with a blood analyzer. This will take but a moment.”
He gently sits beside Bruce on the bed and pricks his finger with the device. Bruce doesn’t protest, only turning his head away in embarrassment. He is unused to being overcome with emotions, particularly in front of an audience. It’s as though a part of him previously held still and complacent in a cage for years upon years has suddenly decided to break free and howl. He’s not sure if he likes the feeling.
Alfred is frowning down at the device as Bruce finally manages to detangle himself from Dick’s arms and sit up straight. “Everything appears normal,” he says. “All components of the serum should be out of his bloodstream in less than an hour. Master Bruce, how are you feeling?”
Five pairs of eyes bore into him. “Tired,” he grunts, “and sad. But not out of control. No nausea or abnormal sensations as far as I can tell.”
Suddenly a new and terrible thought occurs to him with the deadly flash and suddenness of a lighting strike. A pattern, he remembers, an unending pattern. He thinks his face must go pale because Alfred reaches up a hand to steady him, looking even more worried than before.
“Alfred,” he says, reaching to cover the wrinkled hand on his shoulder with his own scarred one. “You know, right?” He swallows hard. “I love you. I love you so much.”
Alfred’s face softens all at once. “Of course I know that, dear boy,” he says, and sets down the blood analyzer to place his other hand on Bruce’s cheek, turning his head so that their eyes meet. “What brought this on?”
“The boys,” Bruce whispers, even though he knows they’ll all hear him anyway. “They didn’t know. None of them.”
“Oh, lad.” Alfred’s face falls.
The bed shifts as Dick jumps up in surprise. “Wait. What do you mean, none of them?”
Bruce draws in a breath to prepare for the hurt. Stitching up wounds can be just as bad as getting them, after all. “Everyone came to visit with questions in the night.” Their words, he thinks, are so drilled into his brain that he will never forget the pain of having them carved there.
He points at Jason first, who tenses at once. “What do you think of me?”
His finger moves to Tim. “How do you feel about me?”
Next, Damian. “Do you want me?”
Finally, he waves his hand to the side where Dick is still visibly reeling. “Why did you let me stay,” he finishes.
The room falls into shocked silence as all four boys stare at each other in befuddlement.
“Why would you ask that?” Dick says first, breaking the spell. “He’s literally your dad, of course you’re all wanted and loved!”
“Uh, you’re clearly the favorite, here,” Jason protests. “Why would he want anything to do with me when you’re around?”
“No, Bruce wouldn’t survive losing you,” Tim tells Jason. “He only pulled through the last time because Alfred and I basically forced him to.”
“What?” Jason says.
“Yeah, that’s true.” Dick winces.
Damian scoffs. “This makes your own question even more idiotic, Drake. Obviously I attempted to remove you first upon arrival because I deemed you the largest competitor for Father’s affections.”
Tim appears to bluescreen for a minute. “I thought I was just the easiest target!”
Damian crosses his arms and stares down at the floor. “Of course that’s what I told you,” he says with some venom.
“Damian, there was no ‘threat to Bruce’s affections,’ you’re his real kid. Of course he was going to take you in,” Dick chides gently.
“I know that now,” Damian huffs.
“Real kid, shmeal kid,” Jason says. “Dick is the gold standard that no one else can measure up to, and B always gets all grumpy when you go back to Bludhaven. You have no reason to question how much he wants you around.”
“Well, what was I supposed to think when you got adopted after staying here for two months?” says Dick, something heated and hurt in his voice. “I was here first. I was here for seven years before he even found you! But he didn’t bring it up with me once and then made you a Wayne right away?”
“To be fair,” Tim says, “He didn’t adopt me until both my parents were dead, I had literally nowhere else to go, and the foster system would have probably squirreled me away to the highest bidder so someone could steal my inheritance. He didn’t even pick me, really, I kind of just barged in and he allowed it.”
“That’s not true,” says Dick immediately.
“You’re literally a miniature B,” Jason says at the same time. “He couldn’t not want you around, not once he got to know you. It was sucky to be replaced, but it got even worse when I realized it was an upgrade.”
Tim whirls around immediately. “You were the best! I could never live up to your Robin!”
“Wow, I can’t even begin to unpack all of that, but—”
“Stop at once, all of you,” Alfred commands in a hard voice Bruce has heard only once or twice before. Alfred turns to face him, eyes full and wet, and his voice goes quiet when he glances back at the boys. “This is painful to listen to.”
Oh. Bruce is crying again. He wipes furiously at his eyes and allows himself one horribly wet sniffle before taking the handkerchief that Alfred offers and properly blowing his nose.
“Sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. Come here, please?”
Slowly the boys drift forward, each taking a seat on the bed and watching Bruce like he’s some alien bird who might either kill them or present them with a pot of gold.
He starts with the closest one, which happens to be Tim. Bruce takes his face in his hands. He isn’t good with words or emotions, but he will have to make due for this. It cannot wait another second.
“Tim Drake, you are my son. I love you. Your passion and dedication inspire me. Do you understand?” Slowly, cautiously, Tim nods. He seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Bruce just nods back gravely and moves to the next child. Dick. He takes the same position, holding his son’s face like a delicate treasure. “Dick Grayson, you are my son. I love you. Your laughter always lifts my spirits and you bring joy to all you meet. Do you understand?” Dick’s chin is trembling, but he nods too.
Bruce shifts to the foot of the bed where Jason is sitting and holds up his hands with a questioning look. Jason nods so slightly it is barely a movement at all, but his breathing turns shallow when Bruce’s fingers touch his skin. “Jason Todd, you are my son. I love you. I admire your fighting spirit and your equally strong sense of compassion. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.” Jason sounds like he’s being strangled. Bruce strokes his thumb across his cheekbone in reassurance before he turns to the last of his boys.
“May I touch your face?”
“Yes, Father.”
Damian’s eyes are huge and he bites his lip in anticipation as Bruce does so, tilting his head so that their eyes meet. “Damian al Ghul-Wayne, you are my son. I love you. I am constantly amazed by your bravery and compassion. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Damian’s voice wavers. For a single second his whole body trembles, and then he’s throwing himself at Bruce for the only hug he’s ever seen him initiate with another human being. Dick joins the hug a second later from one side and Tim snuggles closer on the other. Even Jason manages to sling an arm around the back of their huddle as he pretends he’s too cool for a group hug.
Somehow, Alfred manages to extract himself from the bed and stand before Bruce with a smile on his face. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised when Alfred places his own thin hands on Bruce’s cheeks. “Bruce Thomas Wayne, I have raised you since you were eight years old,” he says. “You are my son. I love you, and I am so proud of the man you have become. Do you understand?”
Bruce couldn’t stop his smile if he wanted to. “Of course I do,” he says.
“Everybody hug Alfred time!” Dick hollers from somewhere behind him, and all of a sudden Bruce is free as his children dogpile Alfred until they’ve trapped him standing in a hug and everyone is laughing.
“I think,” Alfred announces from the middle of the large tangle of limbs and bodies, “that it is well past time for breakfast. Sharing emotions is hungry business all around.”
“Hear, hear!” Dick says.
“Food,” Tim agrees.
Everyone pulls away, slowly retreating out of the room until only Alfred and Bruce are left.
“Good job, Master Bruce,” Alfred tells him with another small smile before he turns to follow the kids down the hall. “Join us for breakfast, won’t you?”
Bruce is frozen in place for a stretching moment in time as he tries to process everything that just happened now that he’s finally alone. He catches his breath, wipes his eyes, and moves to stand up, shaking off the rogue emotions like dust from his jacket. His children are downstairs. His children need love and Bruce is the one here to give it to them.
His new mission starts today. He will not fail again.
He makes his way downstairs.