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It had been a hell of a month.
Missions gone wrong. Bad press. Nightmares. Too many sleepless nights, and not enough Alfred-made cocoa to fix it.
So when Bruce finally declared a mandatory week off, none of the boys argued. They all came home.
Every bedroom was full. Every couch was claimed. Even Titus looked a little overwhelmed by the sheer weight of exhausted vigilantes flopped across the manor like cats in a sunbeam.
And Jason... Jason had regressed almost immediately.
The first night back, he'd slipped into the manor quietly, hood up, and settled himself on the far end of the couch. He didn’t speak much, just hummed softly behind his pacifier and curled himself into a tight ball. When Bruce finally walked by and ruffled his hair, Jason had all but melted against his side, burying his face into Bruce’s shirt like a baby opossum.
Three days later, he still hadn’t left regression.
And Bruce was starting to worry.
Jason had always been emotional when he was little. Clingy. Easily flustered. Prone to hiding under blankets or hoodies like they were shields. And now? He was a puddle of insecurity, barely talking, following Bruce like a baby duck, and trying very hard not to be a bother.
That morning, Bruce found him curled up in the corner of the couch, knees tucked to his chest under a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one of Bruce’s, actually. Jason’s paci bobbed slowly in his mouth, and he was watching Sesame Street on low volume, arms wrapped tight around a pillow like a life raft.
Bruce sat beside him quietly.
Jason glanced over but didn’t say anything. His cheeks were pink.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Bruce asked gently, smoothing his hand over Jason’s back. “You’re awfully quiet today.”
Jason’s reply was a shrug. Muffled, low.
“M’fine.”
Bruce frowned.
He didn’t push. Not yet. But something was wrong.
Jason was clumsier than usual, dropping his sippy cup twice that morning, tripping over his own feet in the hallway. And more than once, Bruce had walked into a room to find Jason scrubbing at something in a panic. The bedsheets. A blanket. His hoodie.
Bruce suspected the truth.
But Jason had to come to him.
Later that afternoon, Bruce brought a warm bottle of milk into the den and offered it wordlessly. Jason peeked up at him from a pillow fort, cheeks still faintly flushed.
“Thanks, Daddy…” he mumbled, grabbing the bottle with both hands and sucking it quickly like he was trying to prove something.
Bruce sat nearby and waited.
Sure enough, halfway through the bottle, Jason’s hands stilled.
“…I didn’t mean it,” he whispered suddenly, out of nowhere.
Bruce blinked. “Didn’t mean what, sweetheart?”
Jason looked like he wanted to disappear.
He ducked his face behind the bottle and refused to answer. Bruce didn’t push. Just sat a little closer and let his hand rest on Jason’s back again.
“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved, baby,” he said softly. “You know that, right?”
Jason’s lips trembled.
And Bruce caught the tiniest hitch in his breath, the beginning of tears he was trying not to shed.
But still… Jason didn’t speak.
So Bruce just sat with him. Rubbing slow circles on his back, whispering calming things. Letting Jason lean into him like a storm cloud slowly readying to burst.
What Jason hadn’t told him, not yet, was that he’d wet the bed twice this week.
And both times, he’d woken up cold and soggy, panicked, tearing the sheets off and shoving them into the laundry before anyone could smell it. His hoodie had gotten soaked one of those nights, and he’d spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub the smell out of it with hand soap.
He was mortified. Utterly ashamed.
Big boys didn’t pee themselves. Robins didn’t pee themselves.
Even when they were little.
Even when their brain felt foggy and the world was too big and their body didn’t always cooperate.
So Jason hadn’t told anyone.
He’d just tried to be more careful. More aware of his body. He stopped drinking water after dinner. Woke himself up in the middle of the night to pee. But none of it helped, not really.
Because he was tired. So tired. And scared.
He didn’t want to be babied that much. Not really. Right?
Not enough to need…
Diapers.
He flushed just thinking the word.
Jason Todd. In diapers. God.
He bit down on the paci and buried his face in Bruce’s chest, body going stiff again.
Bruce, misreading the move, only kissed his temple.
“Love you, my baby boy.”
Jason didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because the cracks were already showing.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep them from splitting wide open.
---
The manor was unusually quiet for a Saturday night. The kind of quiet that only happened when everyone was home, everyone was safe, and no one had the energy to keep up the usual banter. It had been a brutal few weeks for the entire Batfam after all. Tension coiled tight in their shoulders.
But tonight? Tonight was supposed to be easy.
Movie night.
Blankets were piled across the massive L-shaped couch in the manor’s living room, big enough to seat a small army. Which, in a way, it was.
Cass was curled up on the armrest with her legs tucked under her, flicking popcorn at Tim. Steph was hogging the biggest throw blanket. Duke had claimed one end of the couch like a king, arm slung over the back lazily. Damian sat next to him, scowling half-heartedly, mostly at the film’s plot inconsistencies. Dick was sprawled on the floor with a pillow, too antsy to sit still.
And then there was Jason.
Jason, who hadn’t said more than a few full sentences in days. Who had been quiet, unusually so, toddling around the manor in oversized hoodies and thick socks, a pacifier in his mouth more often than not. He’d been curled into Bruce like a baby animal, practically glued to his side since breakfast.
And Bruce... Bruce had known something was wrong.
Now, Jason was in his lap again, curled up under the folds of Bruce’s coat, pressed close like he could disappear. The sleeves of his hoodie swallowed his hands. His eyes were heavy with sleep, paci bobbing gently between his lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly every now and then like he was trying not to cry again.
Bruce rested a large hand on his back and rubbed in slow, soothing circles.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he’d asked earlier. “You’re awfully quiet today.”
Jason had just blinked up at him, cheeks pink. “M’fine.”
Bruce hadn’t pushed. Not yet. Jason always came to him when he was ready.
So now, in the soft glow of the TV, with everyone watching How to Train Your Dragon for the millionth time and mouthing the lines along with it, Bruce simply held him. Jason was warm against his chest, boneless and small, a little furnace of trust tucked under his chin. He rocked them ever so slightly back and forth.
It felt peaceful.
Jason let his eyes drift shut, cheek pressed to Bruce’s shoulder. The rumble of his heartbeat was steady and safe. His paci slipped a little as he relaxed.
And then—
Then the warmth spread.
It started low on his belly, blooming slow and terrifying. Jason tensed immediately, eyelids flying open.
No. No. No.
It was already too late.
The accident spread faster now, soaking through his underwear and sweatpants in a horrifying wave. The wet seeped into Bruce’s dress pants. Into the couch.
Jason sat frozen for a half-second in full-body horror.
Then the dam broke.
“I—I—no no no no—!!”
The paci fell from his mouth as the sobs punched out of him all at once. Loud, broken, panicked.
He scrambled to push off Bruce’s lap, but Bruce caught him immediately, wrapping him back up in strong arms before he could fall.
“Shhh, shh—hey, hey now, baby,” Bruce murmured, voice calm and warm and completely unfazed. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s just an accident. You’re alright.”
But Jason wasn’t alright.
Everyone had heard him cry out. Everyone had turned to look.
Everyone had seen.
The dark wet patch across Bruce’s lap.
The spreading stain on Jason’s sweatpants.
The absolute, total meltdown happening in real time.
Dick looked like his heart had just cracked in two. Cass’s eyes went wide. Tim’s mouth was already open in concern, and Steph’s eyebrows were halfway to her hairline. Even Damian froze, blinking rapidly like his brain was trying to process the social rules of how not to make this worse.
Duke sat straight up. “Oh—oh no,” he whispered.
Jason sobbed harder, little fists bunching in Bruce’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—” He gasped, hiccuping already. “Didn’t wanna wear—didn’t wanna—”
“I know,” Bruce said, cradling him close. “I know, sweetheart. You’re not in trouble. Accidents happen. Especially when you’re this little.”
Jason buried his face in Bruce’s neck, shoulders shaking.
“And we’re gonna get you all cleaned up, okay? Fresh clothes, warm blanket, dry couch, no big deal. Everything’s alright.”
Jason whimpered.
But the room had gone still. No one said anything.
Until—
Dick, gently, quietly, “Hey, buddy. You’re okay. Promise.”
Tim chimed in a second later. “Do you want us to go so you can change? Or stay?”
Cass leaned forward. “I can get a towel,” she offered softly.
“Perhaps we might give Master Jason a little privacy,” came Alfred’s voice at last, cool and composed as always, but kind. “Though there is no shame in what happened. Not in the slightest.”
Jason sobbed into Bruce’s shoulder, fingers digging into his shirt. He couldn’t bear to look at any of them. His breath caught sharply in his chest like it had claws. His hands clenched hard into Bruce’s sweater, face buried deep against his father’s chest to escape the world. His body trembled, shoulders, arms, even the back of his neck quivering with shame. Warm tears spilled from his eyes, soaking into Bruce’s shirt as he let out panicked little sobs.
“They saw,” he choked. “They saw! They’re gonna—they’re gonna laugh at me—!”
His voice cracked, a babyish wail punching its way through clenched teeth. He tried to squirm away, but Bruce held him firm, shushing him softly.
“They’re gonna make fun of me! I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m not—I’m not a baby, I’m not—I’m not—!”
“You’re not in trouble,” Bruce murmured, rubbing his back slowly. “Shhh, sweetheart. Just breathe. You had an accident. That’s all. It happens.”
But Jason shook his head frantically, fists pounding lightly against Bruce’s chest before curling into trembling knots. He didn’t even realize he was making those high-pitched, hiccupy sobs, not until Dick winced sympathetically and leaned forward slightly, eyes wide with heartbreak.
“Poor baby Jay…” Dick whispered, his voice breaking like he might cry too.
Steph had her hands over her mouth. Duke looked stunned. Tim opened his mouth like he had something to say, then caught the sharp edge of Bruce’s glare and immediately looked down, lips zipped tight.
Cass sat perfectly still, her expression unreadable to most, but she signed something quietly to Alfred beside her, hands small and gentle.
“He’s scared,” she told him.
Alfred gave a small nod in return, already folding his book closed.
Damian—oh, Damian—stood awkwardly, arms crossed. His face was carefully blank, but the tips of his ears were red. His voice came out gruff and too loud.
“Then don’t look, if he’s embarrassed,” he snapped at no one in particular.
No one responded, but the hush in the room thickened like fog.
In the center of it all, Jason cried harder. His paci had fallen somewhere on the couch in the shuffle, and he hadn’t even noticed. He was too small. Too little. Too exposed.
Bruce stroked his hair and slowly stood, Jason still clutched to his chest like a koala. He was soaked, hoodie sticking wetly to his thighs and Bruce’s sweater. Bruce didn’t even flinch at the mess.
“We’re gonna get cleaned up, sweetheart,” he said softly, but loud enough that the room would hear. “Then we’ll talk, okay?”
Jason didn’t respond. He was sobbing so hard now that it came in choking gasps, full-body shudders racking his little frame.
Bruce turned to leave, but paused briefly at the door to look back at the rest of the room, voice still quiet, but heavy with finality.
“This doesn’t leave this room. That’s not up for discussion.”
He didn’t wait for anyone to answer before carrying Jason out of the room, holding him like he weighed nothing.
The rest of the family just sat there in stunned silence.
Dick pulled his knees up to his chest.
“…He really is little right now, huh?”
Steph nodded, slowly.
“Yeah. Poor kid.”
Tim muttered, “We’ve all had our moments.”
Duke whispered, “Not like that.”
Cass just stared at the door and didn’t say anything else.
Back in the hallway, Jason’s sobs echoed quietly against Bruce’s shoulder.
And Bruce held him tighter.
---
The stairs creaked quietly as Bruce carried Jason up, the hallway dim with soft lamplight. Jason was tucked against his chest, face buried deep in Bruce’s shirt, still hiccupping from earlier sobs. The pacifier in his mouth bobbed weakly, wet from tears. His arms clung tight around Bruce’s neck, like he was afraid of letting go.
Bruce said nothing as they passed the portraits, the polished floors, the quiet hush of Wayne Manor’s upper hall. He just kept one hand braced behind Jason’s back, the other supporting under his thighs, rocking gently as he walked.
They reached Jason’s room.
Bruce nudged the door open with a foot, crossed the room, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Jason whimpered, high and sharp, and tried to shrink in, to disappear.
“It’s okay, baby,” Bruce murmured, rubbing his back. “You’re safe. You’re home.”
Jason didn’t answer. He wouldn’t look up. Just clung harder, like he could press himself into Bruce’s chest and cease to exist.
Bruce waited a moment, let him breathe, before reaching to the nightstand where the wipes and clothes were already stacked from previous days. He spoke softly, slow and reassuring.
“Let’s get you out of these wet things, sweetheart. Then you’ll be all warm and dry again. Okay?”
A tiny shake of the head. But no protest when Bruce lifted his hoodie. No protest as Bruce pulled it off over his curls, or peeled down the damp joggers clinging to his legs. Jason was red-faced, avoiding eye contact like the floorboards were the most interesting thing in the world.
Bruce worked with calm, practiced motions. Gentle. No rush. He made sure Jason stayed covered with a fresh towel, protected and comforted. When he reached for the wipes, Jason gave a soft mewl of distress, curling his knees up.
“I know, baby,” Bruce murmured, soothing a hand down his shin. “I know that was scary. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jason let out a broken little sound, but stayed still.
Once he was clean and dry, Bruce set the used towel aside and reached for the drawer, the special one.
The moment Jason heard it open, he froze. His breath hitched. Then his head popped up, eyes wide with terror and something else he couldn’t name.
“Sweet boy…” Bruce said softly, holding up the familiar pastel item. “I think we might need to put you in diapers for now. Just while you’re little. So you feel safe. Would that be okay?”
Jason didn’t answer.
Just stared.
Absolutely petrified.
And also—
Very, very interested.
He shook his head faintly, automatic, but his pacifier bounced rapidly with how hard he was sucking, and he didn’t move a muscle when Bruce spread out the diaper on the bed.
Bruce took that as permission.
“Good boy,” he said gently, guiding Jason back until he was lying down on the soft changing mat, legs trembling just a little. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you now. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’ve got you.”
Jason covered his face with both hands.
His whole body was shaking. From embarrassment, from shame, from the vulnerable swirl of being seen so completely and not running away.
Bruce worked quickly, but tenderly. Every motion full of love.
He powdered Jason lightly, whispered affirmations as he taped up the soft white diaper with practiced hands. His voice was calm and steady, anchoring.
“There we go. All snug. All clean. That’s my good little boy.”
Jason was fully beet red now, eyes watery, pacifier wobbling furiously. He tried to curl up, but Bruce tugged him gently into his arms instead, tucked him close, rocked him in the safety of his embrace.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart,” Bruce murmured against his curls. “You’re perfect. Accidents happen. You’re little right now, and Daddy’s here to take care of you.”
Jason sniffled. A few leftover tears slipped down his cheeks. But slowly, inch by inch, he relaxed.
The shame was still there.
But so was the safety.
Wrapped up warm in jammies, his diaper crinkling softly under the fabric, Jason let himself be held.
Bruce just rocked, heart to heart, back and forth, back and forth, whispering love into the quiet.
“You’re safe now, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”
---
The sitting room was unusually quiet.
Alfred had long since retreated to the kitchen, though everyone knew he was keeping one ear tuned to the goings-on upstairs. The faint sounds of water running, the creak of floorboards above. They weren’t trying to eavesdrop. Not really. But when someone you love comes apart in your arms, it leaves a silence that hums.
Stephanie fidgeted on the couch, legs crossed, then uncrossed. The TV was still on, paused mid-episode, a character frozen in mid-sentence like even the sitcom wasn’t sure what to say.
Nobody had spoken since Bruce had carried Jason upstairs in a trembling, soaked bundle of limbs and tears.
Then finally—
“Okay,” Dick said, clapping his hands softly against his knees, like psyching himself up for something, “I’m gonna… go check on them.”
Stephanie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You mean spy.”
Dick shrugged, already halfway to the door. “It’s not spying if I love him.”
“You’ll spook him,” Tim said gently, from where he sat curled up in the armchair with a throw pillow hugged to his chest. “He’s probably still deep in it.”
Stephanie leaned back with a sigh. “That poor boy. He held it together all through dinner. I could see it. His eyes were so glassy.”
Tim looked away, guilty. “I’ve been there,” he admitted. “Last year. That week Bruce and I were stuck in Metropolis? I couldn’t get back up again for days. I was just…” He shrugged. “Gone.”
Damian made a soft sound, like a tiny grunt of acknowledgment. He’d been quiet the entire time, sitting on the hearth by the cold fireplace, legs crossed, arms folded. He didn’t look at them as he spoke, but his voice was clear.
“It is not dishonorable,” he said stiffly, “to require garments for infancy when one is overwhelmed. That is the function of regression. To restore balance when the mind cannot.”
Stephanie blinked. “Did you just, did you just validate diapers?”
“I did not use the word diapers,” Damian snapped.
Cass smiled softly and signed, He’s still our Jason.
Just then, there were footsteps on the stairs.
Everyone stilled, heads turning.
And then, there they were.
Bruce descended first, slow and steady, his arms full of sleepy, clingy boy. Jason was curled against his chest, dressed in soft fleece pajamas, deep blue with little stars on them, and unmistakably diapered underneath, the quiet crinkle audible even from across the room. His pacifier was still tucked in, cheeks red and eyes wide, but no longer glassy with tears.
He looked small. Not in size, but in presence. Little. Vulnerable. And absolutely buried in Bruce’s shoulder like a baby koala holding tight to his tree.
No one said a word at first.
Then Dick, bless him, launched himself across the room with the energy of a man on a mission.
“Jaybird,” he said softly, stopping just short of reaching out. “It’s okay. Not a single person here thinks less of you. I promise.”
Jason turned his face just slightly, half-shielded behind Bruce’s shoulder. His paci bobbed once, nervously. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either.
Tim stood up slowly and came to his side. “Honestly,” he said, voice gentle but sure, “if you weren’t regressed after this month, I’d be more worried.”
Stephanie got up too, rummaging through the blankets on the back of the couch until she found the softest one, the pale yellow fleece one Jason liked, with the little ducks. She approached carefully, like coaxing a frightened animal, and held it out.
“Trade?” she asked. “I’m told this one gives bonus comfort points.”
Jason hesitated. Then reached for it.
Stephanie beamed.
Cass padded over and crouched next to Bruce’s legs, just enough for Jason to see her without moving. She signed slowly, lovingly:
Safe. Home. Loved.
Jason blinked hard. His fingers curled in Bruce’s shirt. He looked at each of them in turn, Tim’s quiet steadiness, Steph’s warmth, Cass’s certainty, Dick’s soft encouragement. Even Damian, who stayed back by the hearth but gave a firm, solemn nod.
And finally, Jason whispered, quiet, almost uncertain, around his pacifier:
“…I still wanna be little.”
It came out like a confession. Like a secret scraped from the deepest corner of his heart.
Bruce smiled and kissed his hair.
Jason’s whispered confession lingered in the air like steam curling off cocoa. His pacifier bobbed slightly in his mouth as he snuggled in tighter against Bruce’s chest, crinkling softly with every movement.
Bruce kissed his forehead again—gentle, slow—and just kept holding him. “Then that’s exactly what you’ll be, sweetheart,” he’d said, voice soft and certain. “For as long as you need.”
Jason’s arms stayed wrapped around him. He was still flushed and blinking fast, but a tiny smile, just the ghost of one, was curled into his cheeks. Not the old Red Hood grin. Not Jason Todd, streetwise and armored.
Just a sleepy little boy, shy and safe.
Tim gave Bruce a small smile of his own, then pushed up from the couch. “I’ll go make more hot chocolate. The real kind. With cinnamon. Not whatever powder Alfred tries to pass off as ‘classic.’”
Steph stretched and hopped up beside him. “I’ll grab pillows. And maybe the heated blanket from the den. Baby Bat deserves only the best.”
Cass moved next, quiet as ever, and gently tugged Damian by the wrist, drawing him closer. Damian made a faint protesting sound, something between a scoff and a sigh, but let himself be pulled in anyway. He settled near Bruce’s feet with stiff dignity, arms crossed but gaze steady on Jason.
And Dick?
Dick just… watched for a second. Like he was memorizing the moment.
Then he dropped onto the couch beside Bruce and Jason, dug under the throw blanket tucked behind him, and came up with a battered plush elephant. Its ears flopped, and one button eye was crooked, but it looked well-loved.
Jason blinked at it.
Dick smiled and tucked the elephant beside him. “In case your hands get cold,” he said. “Or you wanna throw something at me later.”
Jason made a huffing noise through his paci, but he didn’t say no. He let the elephant stay.
Tim came back with mugs, real ones, not travel cups. He handed Bruce a warm one first (extra whipped cream), then offered one to Jason, but Jason made no move to reach for it. He was still clinging to Bruce like a koala, his diaper crinkling as he shifted against him.
“I’ll hold it for him,” Bruce murmured. “He’s comfy.”
Steph returned next with pillows in her arms and the thickest, fluffiest heated blanket the manor had to offer draped over her shoulders like a cape. She started building a nest on the floor, a true Gotham-grade pillow fort, complete with side cushions and back support.
“Come on, boys,” she said. “Blankie time.”
Tim kicked off his slippers and flopped down onto the soft mound with a quiet groan of relief, lying on his side and curling a pillow under his arm. A pacifier appeared from somewhere (Dick didn’t ask), and Tim tucked it in with practiced ease.
Damian gave them all a long-suffering look. Then, stiffly, he padded over and sat beside Tim, arms still folded. But his shoulder was touching his brother’s. And his fingers were twitching faintly against the edge of a pillow, like maybe he wanted to hold something too.
Cass settled nearby, cross-legged and content, the faintest smile on her face as she watched Jason from her spot.
Bruce eased back into the armchair, adjusting Jason so the boy was wrapped fully in the blanket now. He shifted just a little, enough for Jason’s cheek to press against his chest, the pacifier still bobbing faintly between his lips.
The diaper rustled again, soft and unashamed this time.
“Good boys,” Bruce murmured, voice low and warm as he looked around at all of them. “My brave babies. You’re safe now. You’re home.”
Jason let out a breath. A real one. Long and low, like something heavy was finally letting go.
He hid his face in Bruce’s shirt, but this time he was smiling.
Warm. Pink. Sleepy.
There was no teasing. No shame. Just quiet warmth, dim lamplight, and the hush of a movie playing low in the background. Somewhere, a mug clinked gently against a saucer. Outside the manor, snow kept falling.
And inside?
Inside was one big baby bat.
Wrapped in jammies, snuggled deep in Bruce’s lap, surrounded by siblings and warmth and love. One hand slowly curled around the elephant plush. The other clung to Bruce’s shirt like a lifeline.
The pacifier twitched once as he yawned. Then again, as his lashes fluttered.
Bruce kissed the crown of his hair.
“You did so good today, sweetheart,” he whispered. “So, so good.”
And Jason, warm and safe and utterly little, nodded once against him before finally closing his eyes.
---
The manor was calm. Sunlight streamed in through the wide windows of the sitting room, golden and lazy. It was one of those rare Gotham mornings when the world wasn’t ending, and the bats weren’t bleeding.
Jason was curled on the armchair, legs flung over one armrest, a book resting on his chest.
Big boy book.
Black jeans. Boots. Tough guy scowl firmly in place.
Totally not someone who’d wet himself in front of his entire family less than a week ago.
And definitely not someone who’d begged, actually begged, to stay little after said incident. Or waddled around in footie pajamas for two days. Or fallen asleep on Bruce’s chest with a paci.
Nope. Definitely not.
Jason cleared his throat and flipped a page, not that he was reading it.
Just then, Dick strolled in. He was grinning. Which was never a good sign.
“Hey, Jaybird,” Dick sing-songed. “Dry today?”
Jason’s book snapped shut.
“I will kill you.”
Dick held up his hands, utterly unfazed. “I didn’t say anything!”
Tim appeared in the doorway next, munching on a cereal bar. “You know, it’s pretty impressive,” he added casually. “Takes a lot of guts to regress that hard. Most of us just cry in the shower.”
“I didn’t regress,” Jason growled.
“Right,” Steph said, entering with her usual dramatic flair. “And Alfred didn’t do six loads of laundry to clean up your baby clothes.”
“That was unrelated.”
“You wore footies, dude,” she said. “They had little bats on the toes.”
“They were warm,” Jason muttered. “And Bruce put them on me!”
“He also carried you around like a baby koala,” Tim added helpfully.
Cass wandered in, perched beside Jason on the arm of the chair, and signed:
Still cute. Still our baby.
Jason buried his face in his book again, grumbling something unintelligible that might’ve been kill me now.
Which was when Bruce arrived. Calm. Composed. Holding a mug of coffee. And aiming directly for Jason.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he said warmly. “You get enough snuggles last night, or do you need Daddy to hold you again?”
The room went silent.
Jason's eyes nearly exploded out of his skull.
“Don’t call me that in public!”
Bruce sat beside him, arm around his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “In public? This is the living room. And you’re my baby boy.”
“I am literally going to combust,” Jason hissed.
Bruce kissed the top of his head. “You say that every time. And yet…”
Jason looked like a puffed-up cat, furious and red, but he didn’t move away.
“You like this,” Steph said, eyes gleaming. “You’re such a baby. Admit it.”
“I’m not—!”
Dick interrupted, utterly unbothered: “It’s okay, Jay. Being the family crybaby is a big job. Takes dedication.”
“I was sick!”
“You had a wet diaper,” Damian corrected as he entered, cool as ever. “And you cried for nearly twenty-five minutes.”
Jason opened his mouth to object, and then realized what Damian was holding.
A familiar plushie.
“That’s not mine!” Jason snapped, even as Damian dropped it onto his lap.
“Sure it isn’t,” Steph muttered.
Tim nodded gravely. “You’re right. This must belong to the other emotionally volatile vigilante with a penchant for pacifiers.”
Cass giggled. Even Damian smirked.
Bruce leaned closer, voice low and tender:
“It’s alright, sweetheart. Even big boys have little days sometimes. And I’ll always take care of you. Diapers and all.”
Jason looked ready to melt through the floor.
“I hate you,” he said, completely red.
“You love me,” Bruce said, utterly calm.
Jason didn’t deny it.
Instead, he snatched up the plushie, glared at everyone, and muttered:
“I’m going to the Batcave. Alone.”
He stomped off. Well. Tried to. The plushie under one arm kind of ruined the drama.
A beat passed.
Then, from the hallway:
“AND DON’T FOLLOW ME!!”
Steph grinned. “Ten bucks says he’s back in footies by dinner.”
“Fifteen says he asks Bruce to rock him by bedtime,” Tim added.
“Twenty if he wets again,” Dick said brightly.
“Children,” Alfred said mildly, entering with a tea tray. “Please stop betting on Master Jason’s bladder control.”
Cass signed, entirely serious:
Fifty if he asks for a paci.
Bruce just chuckled into his coffee.
“Make it sixty,” he said.
And Jason, around the corner, hugged his plushie tighter and pretended he didn’t hear any of it.
He totally did.
He hated them.
He hated how they teased.
He hated how they loved him.
He hated how warm he felt, even when they brought up the most humiliating moment of his life.
And he really hated how much he wanted Bruce to call him “sweetheart” again before bed.
But… maybe just once more wouldn’t hurt.
Maybe.
Just one more little day.
Maybe.