Hurry (Batober #28)

Crisis mode kept his body moving and his mind focused, his emotions deep-sixed for the sake of simply functioning.  The scared child inside himself would raise his head only to be beaten down by the levelheaded adult.  His siblings needed him to be a rock steady presence.  Alfred needed him to respond quickly and efficiently.  Bruce needed not to waste what little energy he had left consoling his children.

On the third day, his feelings violently resurrected themselves.  Alone in his Bludhaven apartment, he surveyed the state of his kitchen.  Dirty dishes sat in the sink.  There were cereal boxes on the kitchen table he still hadn’t put away from his last trip to the grocery store.  He knew there was moldy food in the refrigerator that needed pitching.  The longer he stood there, the more chores came to mind. 

Dirty laundry was overflowing the hamper.  The living room looked like a bomb had gone off after his last gaming session with Tim.  He needed to call and update his Lieutenant, extend his leave of absence.  Coordinate with Alfred to make sure his calendar contained all of Bruce’s future appointments. Ask Tim about the upcoming board meeting.  Sit down with Damian.  Track down Cass. 

The longer he stood there, the less it all mattered. 

His father had cancer. 

His father had… cancer.

And life dared go on?

Time kept advancing?

His trash needed taking out?

His dishes required cleaning?

The sound of ceramic shattering followed the unleashing of his anger.  The mug exploded against the wall, broken pieces showering to the floor.  His mouth was open a second later, screaming as the disaster manifested itself beneath the roof of his soul.  Anger at the world.  Circumstances.  Unfairness.  The depth of unspoken love for his father.  Fear.  Sadness.  Grief.  It swelled up into a hurricane and anything that could be thrown, smashed, or destroyed in that little hole of a home flew in the midst of his mindless thrashing.  Without a single thought, he grabbed hold of the dinning room table and flipped it. 

Strong arms encircled him out of nowhere, pulling him back and away from the destruction.  Instinct kicked in and Dick moved with the momentum, rushing his attacker further back and slamming him into the refrigerator door.  The strong arms were unrelenting.  They dragged him down, down, down until he was leaning back into his brother’s chest.  Screaming became a river of sobbing tears, crying he couldn’t keep inside a moment longer.

Jason held him as the storm raged. 

Silhouette (Batober 2023 #27)

a/n: Language warning… Jason. Surprise, surprise.

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“I’m Batman.”  A straight, serious delivery.  Dick stood with his head high and his shoulders square, confidence hanging from his frame like the well-worn cape.  Having donned the cowl the night previous, he’d had plenty of recent practice.  He was believable in every detail.

“Fuck that.  I’m Batman.”  The statement was cavalier but declared with no less confidence.  Jason voice was naturally deeper than Dick’s and he didn’t have to exaggerate to match Bruce’s range.  The cowl didn’t quite fit right thought and he’d chosen to stick with the red on grey combination, making it his own. 

“You guys are losers.  I’m Batman.”  Tim had put on a late growth spurt and although he wasn’t nearly as tall as his brothers, he made an impressive presentation.  The suit was solid black and professionally crafted and his lean muscles had grown in mass over the summer.  Bruce wondered wistfully when his boy had grown into a man. 

Cass flipped them off and then pointed with enthusiasm to herself.  The platform boots gave her an extra five inches in height and she certainly had presence.  She’d comically acquired a chest plate with a six pack fashioned out of plastic and thrust back her shoulders, emphasizing her physique.  Then she flexed her biceps proudly.  Bruce grinned. 

Damian crossed his arms and glowered, clad comfortably in his Robin costume, daring his father to question his choice.  He’d refused to participate in the farce, stating with an edge to his voice that someday he would be Batman.  Pretending was ridiculous. 

There was a pause.  Then from behind them, Alfred cleared his throat.  None of them had realized he’d joined them.  He too was wearing the cape and cowl he used for emergency rescues.  Dick started laughing.  Jason snorted.  Tim and Cass both smiled.  Damian looked as if he was ready to murder the butler. 

“You too, Alfred?”  Bruce was thoroughly enjoying the theatrics. 

“Always be yourself, sir.”

Study (Batober 2023 #25)

The makeup case was open and its contents were spread out on the counter in front of him.  He’d grown to be an expert over the years, learning first from Alfred the correct application for theater use, then for undercover work, and finally, to conceal the many injuries he’d suffered periodically to his face.  He glanced up at the mirror and inspected his handy work.  The foundation was flawless, no trace of his bruises evident.  However, no amount of cosmetics could hide the swelling around his eye.  He sighed, his mind immediately formulating plausible excuses he could use with tonight’s crowd. 

“Why don’t you stay home.”  It was less a question and more of a suggestion.   Dick joined him in the bathroom, stopping to stand behind his father’s shoulder and meeting his gaze in the reflection. 

Bruce seriously considered it for a second before dismissing the idea.  It was far longer than he normally would have spent contemplating the unthinkable.  “Bruce Wayne hasn’t missed a single Wayne Foundation annual gala since he came of age.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  He hated it when Bruce spoke about himself in the third person.  “Bruce Wayne didn’t go a couple rounds with Killer Croc the night before.”

The patent glare didn’t quite have the same effect with one eye partially swollen shut. 

“Bruce Wayne didn’t hyperextend his knee last week.”

Bruce turned on the stool to face him. 

“Bruce Wayne is allowed to take a sick day because he has a really bad case of the flu.”

“I don’t have-“

“Work with me here.”

“Dick-“

“Let me go instead.  I have a great smile,” he declared, flashing his pearly whites to fend off his father’s stubbornness and barreled forward into the rest of the argument.  “I’m charming.  I can deliver a good speech on the fly.  I know how to work a crowd.  And although my last name is Grayson, everyone who’s anybody in Gotham knows I’m a Wayne through and through.” 

Fondness overcame his dogged sense of duty.   

“My dad needs a break.  I got this.” 

Spooked (Batober 2023 #3)

A sharp, stuttering intake of breath brought all movement in the kitchen to an instant stop.  The knife fell and clattered on the cutting board next to a pile of diced potatoes.  A half second later, Alfred was standing at the sink, the water running, one hand applying pressure to the other.  It took that same amount of time for the remaining occupants of the room to process, overcome their momentary shock, and come back to life.  

Bruce’s hands immediately found Alfred’s under the running water, his gaze intent upon the older gentleman’s pinched face.  Four voices started talking all at once, overlapping each other, each concerned in their own unique way.

“Al, are you-“

“What can we-“

“The hell happened-“

“Pennyworth-“

They went in circles, cool heads and sound decisions forgotten amid their worry. They pressed for answers, verbally encroaching.  

Alfred inhaled deeply, centered himself against the onslaught, and forced his shoulders to drop.  His heartbeat pulsed insistently in his carved-up thumb.  The pressure echoed in his ears.  He opened his eyes and glanced up at Bruce, a wordless request passing between them.

“Boys.  Give us a minute, please.”  The gentle request was neither loud nor insistent, offsetting the urgency that had whipped itself into a frenzy.  It cut through the wall of comments and inquiries and brought their runaway reactions back to sensibility.  

Dick put a hand on Damian’s shoulder.  “We’ll go set the table.” 

Damian shot his older brother a scathing glare before taking one last look at his father and Alfred.  

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Tim announced.  

“I got brunch covered.”  Jason reached for the bloody knife and set it aside to wash later.  He grabbed a new knife out of the block, transferred the uncontaminated food to a new cutting board, and continued like nothing had happened.   

Once the children had left the room or put themselves to task, Bruce returned his attention to Alfred.  “Let’s have a look.”

“Bloody careless,” he muttered under his breath, more irritated at himself than in pain.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cut himself while preparing a meal.  Years had passed. Perhaps a decade.

“Accidents happen.”

The reminder earned Bruce a glare that nearly rivaled Damian’s.  The thought that his youngest had likely learned it from both of them made him affectionately smile.  

“Let’s see,” he tried again, flipping off the water.  

Tim reappeared at his elbow, first aid kit in hand.  He placed it down on the counter within reach, glancing down at the blood dripping in the sink.  A pained sound formed at the base of his throat before he hesitantly retreated.

Alfred stopped squeezing the tip of his thumb and raised it for inspection.  The moment the pressure was gone, the bleeding intensified.  Along with it came a new level of miserable throbbing. 

Bruce evaluated the depth, the cut running wide and parallel to the nail.  “Would benefit from a couple stitches.”

“Ridiculous.  The strips will be more than sufficient.”  

Jason snorted in the background, his dicing motions smooth and steady.

“Jay-“

“Nothing.  Didn’t say a word.  Ignore me.  I’m not here.”

Bruce looked Alfred in the eye, saw the headache forming from the adrenaline crash and the pain, the unspoken desire for the whole encounter to be over and done. “Are you sure?” 

He went back to squeezing the two edges of the wound shut.  “Master Bruce-“

“Usually it’s you stitching me up.”

It was just the right amount of irony said with the perfect amount of levity.  “Quite,” he retorted, returning to his senses with a resigned sigh.  He took another look for himself, sliding into a more clinical frame of mind.  If this were Bruce’s flesh or one of the boys, his opinion would certainly match.  Never accept a half measure when there is time to address the issue properly.  “Forgive a foolish old man.”

His son’s expression softened.  “Nothing to forgive.”

Tim slid a suture kid in on top of the first aid kit, anticipating the need before it was requested.  Then like a shadow, the teenager was gone again. 

With a degree of detached professionalism, Bruce set to work right then and there.  He scrubbed and donned fresh gloves, unfolded a sterile pad on the kitchen countertop, and stripped open the packages sealed in plastic.  Once he had what he needed all laid out, Alfred rested his hand palm up in the middle of the staged area.  As he waited for the finger to numb, he groused about the uncleanliness of performing impromptu surgery on a surface usually reserved for food. 

Alfred kept his kitchen meticulously clean and they both knew it.  “I’ll wipe it down with bleach when we’re done.” 

The promise seemed to mollify the butler. 

He prodded gently at the base of Alfred’s thumb.  “Another minute?”

It no longer felt like the tip of his finger was the size of a football and the top of his head about to blow.  The pressure applied to the uninjured portion hardly registered.  “This should be adequate.” 

“Let’s wait.”  There was no misjudging the statement as suggestion.  If another moment meant the difference between ‘adequate’ and completely deadened, Bruce would fight for that lapse of time. 

His patient accepted the decision without demur.  Soon enough, the work began beneath his watchful eye, the bleeding tapering off.  Unexpectedly, his vision tilted and a profuse sweat broke out on his skin.  “Oh.”

Bruce glanced up in alarm.  “Jason!”

It took only a second for his son to register Alfred’s suddenly sheet white complexion.  He ditched his self-appointed task and grabbed the nearest chair.  Using his foot to finish dragging it into place, he slipped both hands under Alfred’s shoulders and guided him down.  Then he threw open the freezer door and found an ice pack.  Ripping the hand towel off its hook, he wrapped it haphazardly and settled it on the back of his grandfather’s neck.  He stationed himself to the right, stabilizing Alfred between his own body and the kitchen counter, using a hand to keep the ice pack in position.  Both he and Bruce waited with bated breath.    

Color crept back and the faint feeling lessened.  Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat and took a measured breath, willing his vision to cooperate.  He reached up with his uninjured hand and took control of the ice pack, shifting it to a new position.  Jason squeezed his shoulder, relieved they weren’t picking him up off the floor, and went in search of orange juice. 

Bruce was completely still, watching Alfred with an intense gaze.  He’d paused all work on the thumb and was holding it steady, his own gloved hands spotted with his surrogate father’s blood. 

“That was… unpleasant,” Alfred muttered.  A straw appeared in his periphery.  Obediently, he took a sip.  Then another.  Between the ice and the sugar, it wasn’t long before his condition improved significantly.  He took in Bruce’s expression and registered the tightly controlled anxiety. 

“It’s been a rather eventful morning.  I think perhaps I’ll take the rest of the day off.” 

Jason huffed in amusement. 

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed.  The rest of his body incrementally followed.  Soon after, he tied the last stitch, cleared away the excess blood, and made short work of the bandaging.  He watched as Alfred raised the wounded digit to his chest, resting it above the level of his heart.  The local was beginning to wear off.  “Jay, could you get him some Tylenol?” 

“Sure thing.” 

“And then check with your brothers.  Talk amongst yourselves and decide what you want for lunch.  Order something and have it delivered.” 

Jason was taken aback.  “I can-“

“I know you can.  I know.  Just-  Please.”  His voice sounded tired.  Spent.  He clearly didn’t want a fight.  He dropped the needle in the middle of the used suture kit and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on top of the pile.  Then he folded the decimated protective pad over the whole lot and ferried the bundle to the trash can. 

Alfred remained silent. 

Jason realized the request had very little to do with the food.  Bypassing the first aid kit, he retrieved two tablets from the bottle kept over the stove and handed them off. 

“Thank you, my boy.”

“I’ll be back in 15 minutes,” he informed them both, his defiant tone daring them to argue. 

Bruce nodded wearily.  Alfred offered no objection.  Jason departed to do as he was told.  Once he was gone, Bruce turned to wash his hands one final time, buying himself a moment to process.

“The counter can wait.  Pull over another chair and sit down.”

He retrieved a fresh towel from the drawer, dried off, and deposited the replacement on the vacated hook.  Across from Alfred he placed the second chair but instead of seating himself, he elevated the older man’s legs and crouched down beside him. 

“I daresay I spooked you.”  He was starting to sound more and more like himself, a brightness returning to his eyes. 

Bruce leaned his forehead against Alfred’s upper arm and breathed out.  “Let’s never do that again.”

“Agreed.”    

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(a/n: This was a double prompt fill: Bruce Wayne Week – Dr. Wayne and Batober #3 – Spooked.)

King of Wishful Thinking – 1/? (Batman AU)

A/N: I introduced my daughter to “Pretty Woman” and this AU just sort of started to flow. Here’s the rewrite of the first scene. Title of this fic is from the song of the same name by Go West. Maybe someday I’ll have a beta. That makes me the queen of wishful thinking.

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The party was in full swing downstairs.  A crowd of well wishers mingled on the patio.  Catering employees weaved around smaller groups of people, passing out champagne.  Small talk and laughter reached Bruce’s uncovered ear while Dick all but yelled in the other.  The whole day had been a test of patience and their current argument was the icing on the cake.

“We’ll talk about it when I get back,” Bruce declared over the phone.

“I don’t want to talk about it when you get back.  You should have taken care of it before you left.” 

“I’ll be gone until Saturday.  It can wait until then.” 

Dick laughed humorously.  “Typical.”

“If you don’t feel it can wait, you’re welcome to deal with it yourself.  I trust your judgement.” 

“You know what?  I don’t need this.”  Dial tone followed.  

It began and ended so similarly to other recent conversations that the abrupt conclusion hardly surprised him.  He took a deep breath and pocketed his nearly dead cell phone.  Now that his attention was no longer divided, the sounds of the party hit him head on.  Just the thought of wasting the energy to maintain a jovial façade downstairs was exhausting.  What he wanted was quiet and the chance to finally put this day to bed. 

He glanced out the only other window in the room.  It led to a private set of stairs that descended to the back of the property.  Limousines and expensive cars packed the side lot and blocked the fountain roundabout.  A handful of chauffeurs lingered.  The rest had flocked to the kitchen or gone to find a private place to smoke.  The party was young and they had time on their hands.  Bruce was ready to leave before he was seen.  Being the guest of honor held no sway over his decision. 

He unlocked the door just as his Metropolis lawyer poked his head in.  “Bruce?”

The door swung open and the cool evening breeze swept in. 

“Bruce, what are you doing?”  Nervousness crept into Alex’s voice. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You’re leaving?  You can’t leave now.”  He rushed into his own office and out onto the outdoor landing in Bruce’s wake. 

He didn’t want to stay before.  Being told he couldn’t only made him more addiment. 

“They’re expecting you at the party.  Bruce!”

The billionaire made his way down the bypass stairs, not bothering to acknowledge his employee’s presence or exasperation.  Alex doggedly followed.  After a moment of inspection, it became clear to Bruce that the limo he’d arrived in was completely blocked in.  Darryl, the driver, was standing at the passenger side door with no way to rectify the situation.  He made eye contact with his boss but raised his hands in a clear gesture that read nothing I can do.  Bruce didn’t fault him.  But neither did it deter him. 

He pointed to a grey 80’s Lotus sitting off to the side, one he recognized from previous trips to the area.  “Is that your Lotus?”

“Bruce, please.  What are you doing?  Come back inside.”

The parking attendant looked up, his interest piqued.  Bruce took the opportunity to push forward.  “Is that Mr. Philip’s car?”

He nodded back hesitantly, awed by the happenings.  

“Do you have your keys on you?”

“What?  Why?  What about the limo?”

“Do you see Darryl back there?”

Philips took a second to search and was rewarded by a wave from the driver.  Then he turned his ire on the parking attendant.  “Don’t you have a system here?”

“Give me your keys, Alex.”

He dug into both his pants pockets and produced a key on a keychain, his expression clearly dismayed.  “Please don’t do this.  I’ll talk to the guys.  Get them to move the other cars.  Please don’t drive my car.  I think you’re a little too excited to be driving,” he announced, projecting own emotions. 

Bruce opened the car door and climbed in as Alex ran off to confer with the parking attendants.  He was back in less than two minutes, his hands in his hair and nervousness exuding from every pore in his body.  “Where are you going to go?  Can you even drive this?  It’s a stick, Bruce.  Let me find you another car.”

“Relax, Alex.  I know how to drive a stick,” Bruce replied evenly, closing the door between them.  He started the car, adjusted the mirrors, and put it in first. 

Alex looked ready to cry.  “I just had it restored!”

He backed off on the clutch and then because he was feeling irritated, he stalled it on purpose to get a reaction. 

His lawyer cringed in pain and started yelling at Bruce through the closed window.  “Bruce!  Seriously!  You don’t know what you’re doing!  You’re going to get lost!” 

He restarted the car, found the sweet spot on the clutch, and darted up the long driveway.  Alex continued to protest, growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. 

The Apple of My Eye – 1/? (Batman)

Summary: Six times Alfred used apples to impart lessons to his grandchildren plus one time he didn’t need to.

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Despite having shown great enthusiasm the year previous, Dick approached his task this time around in relative silence. With downcast eyes, the ten year old waited for Alfred to finish positioning the apple in the peeler before beginning to turn the crank. The “apple spaghetti” grew longer and longer with each rotation of the handle and inched its way closer to the five-gallon bucket sitting on the floor. As the peel ran out, it dropped in the repository altogether. Alfred pulled the apple off its disemboweled core and set the spiraled part aside. The core went in a separate bucket for composting. The operation repeated itself, the supply of apples seemingly endless off of five trees.

Patiently waiting out a child was a skill Alfred had gained in the wake of the death of his employers. Knowing when to prompt a silent child had taken somewhat longer. After nearly four dozen apples, the worry won out. If he could get the young rascal talking, the flood gates would burst. “You’re awfully quiet, Master Dick.”

Dick shrugged. Cranked. Waited. He refused to look up.

“Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

He nodded but said nothing.

“Very well,” Alfred conceded for the moment.

Another half a dozen apples went by.

“She seemed really nice,” he finally muttered. His tone was heavy with sadness and dismay.

Ahhh. The poor dear was still mulling over recent events. Trauma and grieving kept no timelines, made no linear sense. Being kidnapped was no small bump in the road and being the ward of a wealthy man meant Dick would always be a target. They hadn’t harmed a hair on his head. But the confinement and uncertainty had scared him deeply. Just when Alfred and Bruce believed him nearly recovered, another thought or memory would trouble him. He had more better days than not, but his healing was far from over.

“I do hope you’re not blaming yourself.” He took great care to not make it sound like a chastisement.

“I shouldn’t have been fooled.” Anger crept past his sadness, and it was all self-directed.

It was not an avenue worth traveling and Alfred was keen on putting a stop to it. “There are a fair number of apples,” he began.

Dick glanced up at him, his interest snagged.

“-that reach the kitchen with few to no blemishes,’ he explained, placing his hand over Dick’s on the crank. Together, hand in hand, they began to turn it. Like the others, the thin ribbon of peel pulling away revealed the flesh of the fruit beneath. This one had several brown spots, once concealed by the otherwise perfect red skin.

“Beneath, however,” he continued, letting go to pull the spiral into the palm of his hand, “they are worm eaten and bruised.”

Dick grabbed hold of the spiked core and yanked. It filled his small grip.

“Some are rotten through and through.”

He took the cylinder in both hands and broke it in half. It was in fact decaying from the inside out. His eyes grew wide. “How did you know?”

Alfred smiled. “I didn’t, my dear boy. From the outside, there was no way it could be known. It isn’t until we look deeper that we find the truth.”

Permission to Pause – 3/3 (Batman)

Dick had blown up one of the giant inflatable float tubes and was lounging with his head back over the edge, eyes closed, legs crossed. Drifting wherever the water took him. He couldn’t possibly look more relaxed if he tried. Bruce smiled at the sight before dragging a chez lounge closer to the rim of the pool. The sound of the legs scraping the concrete immediately put Dick on the alert. His head shot up. His eyes flew open. In that moment, Bruce almost felt sorry for disturbing him. Then his eldest grinned, rolled out of the tube, and swam over to meet him. Bruce settled himself and shucked his slippers in favor of bare feet.

Dick’s head broke the surface, grabbing the edge with both hands. He made no effort to pull himself out, content to remain in the pool. “Hope you don’t mind I showed up early,” he offered by way of a greeting.

“Not at all. Couldn’t sleep?” They both regularly suffered the fallout of irregular schedules.

“No, actually,” he commented, the surprise clear in his undertone. “I slept really well for a change. Went to bed early and was out like a light. But then I was up early.”

“Anticipating?”

Dick crossed his arms over the tile work and rested his chin. “Probably,” he admitted.

“I was concerned when you texted yesterday. Everything okay?” It was the second time he’d asked in as many days but maybe now that Dick was here he might get a more honest answer. His persistence was rewarded.

“It’s been a stressful last couple of weeks. On both sides of the fence. Some of my cases are coming to a close though and I have a couple days off. Days I could really use. I haven’t had a vacation in-“. He raked his brain trying to come up with a number.

“Fourteen months.” Too long.

“Yeah.” He seemed altogether depressed by the confirmation.

“How do you want to spend your time?” How can I help?

“I want to sleep in. Not think about work. Not go out. Eat all the food Al puts in front of me. Maybe listen to some music. Swim. Watch old rom-coms. Chase my siblings.”

“I’m afraid it’s just us,” he comments on the nearly empty house.

“Seriously? How’d you manage that?”

“They’re all visiting friends.” He did nothing to orchestrate it. They were just all of one mind. Maybe they knew something he didn’t, however unlikely.

Dick didn’t seem terribly disappointed. They had family dinners on a planned basis and it wasn’t as if he didn’t see them often. “Guess that means it’s just you, me, and Al. And movie marathons without having to fend off popcorn thieves. Oh! And we get more cookies to ourselves. You know, you should send them away more often.”

Bruce grinned. “Ready for rings?”

“Let me drag the tube out.” Dick pushed off the wall, swam back over, and hauled it over and out. Then he padded over to the storage unit, rummaged around, and brought back to Bruce twenty plastic rings of all colors. Bright and easy to see at the bottom of the pool.

He tossed the first into the deep end. Dick immediately dove in to retrieve it. As his son reached for the first, Bruce threw the rest of the rings in one at a time, strategically placing them as far away from each other as possible. He watched as over the next five minutes, Dick resurfaced multiple times and dove back down again, taking the task at a leisurely pace. It was play, not work. Relaxing, not anxiety inducing. It was the beginning of what he needed. His father being close by an important part. At the end of each collection, Dick would bring all twenty rings back and hand them over. The process would start again. Toss, retrieve. Bruce likened the diving to a form of meditation, even and grounding in its own way. The tension in Dick’s shoulders bled away with each stroke, the exercise a calming balm.

After the fourth set, he handed over the rings and asked, “You want to come in?”

He would have liked to, yes, but unfortunately it wasn’t advisable. He took a hold of the fabric of his pajama pants and pulled it up. Peeking out from under the hem was a substantial bandage. Dick could see the wicking imprinted underneath the surface. The blood was red, not dried brown. An open wound, still draining infection.

“That looks really fresh.” Dick hefted himself up for a closer inspection.

“Last night. It’s been bothering me a few days. Alfred opened it up and cleaned it out.”

“You want me to change the bandage tonight?” He lowered himself back into the pool.

“You’re on vacation.”

“Yeah, but-“

“It should sit until tomorrow. Alfred will want to check it anyway.”

His expression fell.

“Dick.” Bruce waited until he had his son’s complete attention. “Thank you for wanting to help. You can do that by reminding me to stay off my feet as much as possible while you’re here.”

He brightened back up. “I think I can do that.”

“Another round?”

“Heck yeah.”

Bruce sent sailing the first ring.

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(A/N: Title is from the following quote. “Self-care means giving yourself permission to pause.” – Cecilia Tran)

Permission To Pause – 1/3 (Batman)

Appearing bored and disinterested in the middle of meetings was a skill he’d perfected years ago.  A well-placed yawn, picking a pen apart into its individual pieces and playing with them, or randomly scrolling on his phone gave the desired impression.  Letting his eyes wander also did the trick.  All the while, he listened intently, taking periodic glances at facial expressions and body language.  He could tell his head of human resources was distracted and made a mental note to arrange a working lunch date.  The rest of the c-suite was tuned into the conversation, ignoring him completely. 

Until his cell phone buzzed. 

Lucius stopped mid-sentence and all eyes fell on Bruce.  The sheepish look was entirely for their benefit as he pulled the phone from his pocket.  A text from Dick was waiting for him on the notification screen.

rings?

Bruce stared at it for a second, the fabricated expression slipping from his features.  Receiving contextless messages and related emojis from the kids wasn’t uncommon.  It was secretly heartwarming to know that his children were thinking about him throughout the day, willing to poke him for the sheer fun of it.  This particular request was one Bruce hadn’t seen in years and the reasons behind it troubled him.  Without a second thought, he rose from his chair at the head of the boardroom table.  “Family,” he explained to Lucius as he passed by on the way to the closed double doors. 

There was a serious nod in response and the meeting went on without him.  He waited until he was in the privacy of his own office to reply. 

Are you okay?

During the pause that followed, he tried not to let his mind and possibly unfounded worry run wild.  He tried not to wonder where Dick was this very moment or what was going on around him. 

yeah.

It was the answer Bruce was expecting.  It was the answer he’d taught Dick through his actions and constant example.  Even if the world was falling down around him, he was still okay.  He forced himself to accept the answer at face value.  Glancing through the window, he made a quick evaluation of Friday traffic.

If I leave now, I can make it home in 45 minutes.

God, B.  you’re still at work.  i’m sorry.  tomorrow is fine.  no rush.  seriously.

He started to type back but Dick followed up immediately with another text.

i’ll come before lunch.  I want to sleep in.

You’re sure?

yeah.  i’m sure. 

The uneasiness persisted despite the reassurance and for a moment, he thought about insisting he come earlier.  It was laid to rest when Dick dropped double hearts on the end of the thread.  Insisting would only drive his son away.  That was the last thing Bruce wanted.  He tried for the remainder of the day to focus on the work in front of him, his concern an unwavering companion.

Just Keep Swimming (#11 Whumptober 2021)

(A/N: Language warning. Because… Jason.)

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Jim staggered.  The roll of the ship, the water at his ankles, and the weight of his half-conscious daughter in his arms impeded his forward progress.  Up ahead, he could hear Dick yelling their names.  They nearly collided at a juncture.  Then Dick’s hands were everywhere at once, checking them over, helping them along.  “You’re alright.  You’re alright,” he frantically repeated, reassuring himself as well as encouraging his future father-in-law. 

The companionway behind them was empty and the hatch was standing open.  “Where’s Bruce?”

So sure was Jim of his answer that he didn’t turn to look.  “Right behind us!”

Dick hesitated half a second.  “Keep going!  I’ll meet you on deck!”

“What?”

“I said keep going!  I’ll find him.” 

“He’s not-“

“GO!”  They parted ways with little time to spare.  The bombs were ticking.

Water poured through the breach and into the cargo hold.  Containers of all sizes bobbed and floated, carried whichever way the water pleased.  Emergency lighting provided no help with visibility below the surface.  Dick paused just long enough to strip off his dinner jacket, shuck his dress shoes, and take a deep breath before diving in.  The salt stung his eyes but stubbornly he kept them open to search, kicking out with all the force his legs could muster.  He found Bruce less than ten meters away.  Unconscious.  Fully submerged. Drifting aimlessly like the containers above him. 

Dick hooked him under the arms and swam backwards and up.  He broke the surface, gasping for air.  No such sound came from his father.  Fear overtook him as he half dragged, half floated Bruce out of the depths.  Suddenly, there was another pair of hands helping just as Dick’s feet found purchase.  Working together, he and Jason pulled Bruce to a shallower spot and rolled him onto his back.  His chest remained still.  His pallor was a deathly white.

Dick resisted the urge to cry as Jason interlaced his fingers and started compressions. 

“You’re not leaving us, asshole.”  He switched to rescue breathing then back again.  The motions were smooth and practiced, just like he’d been taught. 

Dick hung his head as Jason went another round.  Then another.  Dick dug his fingers into the meat of his father’s shoulder, squeezing.  Urging without words.  Hoping.

“C’mon.  C’MON!  Breathe!”

The sputtering was music to his ears.  Dick’s gaze shot up as water erupted from Bruce’s mouth, his eyes popped open wide, and he reflexively tried to fight.  But there was no coordination in his limbs, no power to strike.  Both the boys were there to support him. 

“Son of a bitch,” Jason breathed out, anxiety and urgency partially leaving him as relief washed in. 

Bruce sat dazed, eyes unfocused, breathing raggedly.  Blood from a fresh head wound mixed with water ran in rivulets down the side of his face.

Dick suddenly wanted to cry for completely different reasons.  His father was alive. 

“We need to move,” Jason reminded him, urgency returning to his voice. 

“The bombs,” Dick remembered.

Together they rose and pulled Bruce to his feet, each taking an arm over their shoulders.  Bruce was nearly a dead weight between them. 

“We got you, B.”

“One foot in front of the other, Old Man.”