bunnyੈ✩‧₊˚

the way i jumped up when i saw this request because hurt/comfort yes always. also, as someone with bad eating habits/who forgets to eat, this is too real.

🩰, Had to keep you guys waiting. Enjoy <3

Gender neutral reader, dividers, no warnings just romance xx

Now playing … Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy , Queen

But as far as news regarding Gotham’s prominent citizens go, Bruce’s ‘scandals’ are so normal that it’s downright refreshing. When a headline has ‘Bruce Wayne’ in the title, you know you’re either going to read some Celebrity Gossip level non-drama, or else something to do with a charity. Maybe he’s been kidnapped again, but that’s only happened a few times. Bruce Wayne news is like the Gotham equivalent to special reports about dogs who rescue their owners from drowning, or raccoons who’ve figured out how to get past the new self-locking garbage can lids.

And there’s something weirdly reassuring about following his twitter. Like, if Bruce Wayne is tweeting about a really neat old tree he just saw, things must at least be sort of alright.

Bruce’s biggest scandal in years is when Damian turns up because wait, wait, wait, this one’s not adopted? Bruce Wayne had a secret biological kid this whole time? WHAT?  Bruce counters with cheery posts about how well Damian is adjusting and the boys are getting along, and then Dick starts a side twitter about fun times with his new little brother and it’s all water under the bridge from there. 

Like imagine baby nine-year-old Dick getting one of those injuries in the field that doesn’t quite incapacitate but just hurts. Like banging your head or getting your face smashed into the side of a building by some goon. And he’s just stunned for a few seconds before the tears start to leak out. So of course a furious and mortified Batman just decimates the guy before scooping Robin up and carting him off to the nearest secluded rooftop. But Dick is trying so hard not to cry because if he can’t even keep from crying like a baby in the field then there’s no way Bruce will let him be Robin. So Bruce sits him down on the roof and sits cross-legged in front of him, only for Dick to hide his throbbing face in his hands to keep Bruce from seeing tears despite his now-audible sobs. But Batman just calmly pulls out his first aid kit, and it’s only when he gently pries Robin’s hands away from his face to reveal a mouth and chin covered with blood running out of his nose and bruising already spreading across his cheekbones that Dick really starts to cry his eyes out. And it’s breaking Bruce’s heart, so he just shushes Dick softly, cleaning up the blood, grime, and tears and gently prodding his face to look for broken bones. After finding none, he just pulls Dick close, presses an instant ice pack to his nose, and holds him in his lap until the crying stops. Then, after calming down a few minutes later, Dick wipes up the last of his bloody snot with his cape and they continue patrolling.

Or Jason, who’s so stubborn about keeping up his tough street kid image, having no fear and pushing down any vulnerable feelings, having his first Robin the Boy Hostage incident. Robin being taken away kicking and screaming from Batman, yelling himself hoarse as the latter is brutally incapacitated. Being badly frightened by the villain and the thought that Bruce might be dead somewhere, snarling and trying to play off his shaking as rage-filled rather than terrified. And later, after Batman rescues him and it’s all over, his fear of getting tortured or killed along with losing Bruce, plus the aching adrenaline comedown, plus being so angry with himself for feeling so helpless, and the fact that god Batman’s probably so mad at him for needing to be rescued instead of getting out of it himself, all becomes a little too much to repress. And Bruce can see that he’s trying so hard to keep it together, but he’s tense and shaking and trying to hyperventilate as quietly as possible, which Bruce has come to learn are the warning signs of one of Jason’s rare, explosive, infamous meltdowns. But when Bruce reaches out to him Jason flinches away, which cuts Bruce deep that Jay would think he’s angry with him for getting upset in the field, and also notes that he may need the talk again about of how Bruce will never ever lay a harmful hand on him. So he reaches out again, cups the back of Jason’s head, pulls him into his side, and feels Jason pressing his face against him and tiny fingers clinging to his suit. Jason begins to have those long wheezing gasps that mean he’s trying so hard to control his breathing and keep himself from crying, but quickly failing. So Bruce just tucks him up in his cape, stroking his hair and back, murmuring to him over and over that he’s safe and everything’s alright, that it’s not his fault and he did very well. And later, when Gordon shows up with the GCPD to chat with Batman, he pretends not to catch a glimpse of green boots underneath the swish of Batman’s cape, or the red-rimmed domino eyes that peer out from the face pressed into Batman’s side, briefly visible through the part in the cape.

And with Tim, imagine the first time he needs some serious patching up, like Bruce brings him back to the cave with a big nasty gash running down his leg that needs a bunch of stitches. And Tim’s anxious because he’s never gotten hurt like this before, has never had to get stitches, and there’s so much blood that Bruce and Alfred have to clean up and they have to be very careful when cutting the tights off because his leg (along with the rest of him) is shaking so badly. And he’s trying so hard to still himself and keep quiet because he trained for so long to be Robin and he can handle pain but it’s never been like this. But it’s times like these when Alfred really pours on the kindness - he’s so sweet and gentle with his hurt little birds, throwing in some “love”s and “darling”s when speaking to them. He gives Tim a couple shots of Lidocaine, which hurts like hell on its own, and then starts in with the stitches. Tim is gripping the sheets of the medical bed and clenching his jaw and screwing his face up to keep the tears from bubbling over, but quickly ends up sobbing. Bruce is sitting there just kind of awkwardly rubbing across his shoulders, and Alfred is talking softly and reassuring Tim the whole time, trying to stitch as gently as possible. But when Tim isn’t looking, he keeps shooting glares at a bewildered Bruce, both as a where were you when this happened and you know how to be more comforting than that. So Bruce slowly puts an arm around Tim and lets him cry into his shoulder, occasionally raising a thumb up to wipe a stray tear off Tim’s cheek. After Alfred finishes and they get him cleaned up, an exhausted Tim has earned being carried to bed by a heart-heavy Bruce. 

Duke has been on a kick recently where he absolutely loves mug cakes. He eats the hell out of them, and consequently, every mug in the house is always dirty. It’s getting out of hand. Bruce has to drink his morning coffee in a bowl one morning. Tim made hot chocolate in a wine glass. He doesn’t understand why Duke doesn’t just make a full sized cake.

Jason keeps pretending he can’t see/hear Bruce. He’ll come by the manor and even stay the night on occasion, but whenever Bruce asks him a question he just looks around like he’s confused and asks if anyone else can hear that wind

Bruce made Damian a sack lunch for school when Alfred was sick. Dick snapped a picture of Bruce standing in the kitchen in an apron, holding a tiny sack lunch and fixing Damian’s hair. He posted it to Twitter. Dad pages keep retweeting it. Selina won’t stop making fun of him.

Clark sent him a corn emoji and a thumbs up emoji and Bruce doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean. It feels ominous. He loses sleep over it. (It means the crops have been growing well back at the farm)

Tim doesn’t have a spleen. Bruce has conniptions every time that boy even coughs.

Cass and Dick moved everything in the living room so they could dance together. Bruce went to fix the furniture and can’t remember where one of the vases goes. It troubles him deeply.

Stephanie keeps barging into his office and forcing him to listen to her freestyle rap. She does it solely to annoy him. She doesn’t even live here-

Jason shot Bruce’s doorknob off, just to do it. Bruce has no privacy. Now he can’t even escape to his room when the heathens begin arguing and trying to drag him into it. He is forced to participate in family arguments and also game night.

Stephanie won’t leave.

Bruce got a very bad sunburn on a public outing as Dad Bruce Wayne. The internet is now full of photos of Alfred insistently rubbing aloe vera all over pasty white shirtless Bruce’s sunburn while Damian stood 10 feet away and pretended not to know him.

Tim fell asleep in Duke’s room. When Bruce tried to move him, he found Cass asleep in Tim’s. When he tried to take Tim back to his previous spot, Duke had reclaimed his bed. Bruce has now been standing in the hallway for 10 minutes, awkwardly cradling Tim as he tries to figure out where to put his sleep deprived workaholic teenage CEO

Damian’s voice cracked the other day, and he coped with his embarrassment by flying ninja kicking Jason through a window. Bruce wishes he had a normal family. No, he doesn’t

When Dick was Robin, he used so many ridiculous substitutes that they crept into Bruce's vocabulary. This was just barely tolerable when Batman had a tiny Robin beside him to be delighted by, and add to, any silly thing Batman said. As Bruce Wayne, he had to stop entirely, so the connection between the identities wasn't obvious.

Now, Dick is 25. He still uses some ridiculous language, but he rarely patrols with Batman anymore. Batman has NO EXCUSE for saying, "Holy guacamole." It would be embarrassing. To protect his pride, he must refrain from swearing, lest some childish phrase slip out.

There were responsible ways to deal with being bored during League debriefs. Rather than do any of them, Diana adjusted her legs so that her knee touched Batman’s. A ragged tear in his suit meant that it was skin-to-skin contact.

She reached out tentatively.

Black Canary’s hair looks cute today, she ventured, an idle thought to share. She was careful not to go searching for any answers he did not give. She expected him to say nothing, and break contact.

Doesn’t matter, came his answer, so terse a dismissal it almost startled her. He didn’t move his leg. It seemed unlike him, but this form of communication did tend to be more honest.

How unfortunate, to imagine this was what he thought of their occasional conversations.

I’m sure she put a lot of work into it, Diana tried again. The bright blonde locks had been curled into ringlets before being drawn up into a ponytail.

Not for me.

She frowned. That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate it.

Don’t need to.

You’re being awfully rude.

It’s fine.

If I’d gone through such trouble, I’d want you to notice.

Not for me.

It will be, Diana decided. I’ll do my hair just like that, to spite you, and it will be the cutest.

Batman said nothing. Then he leaned back just a little, only enough to see where their knees touched. He glanced at Diana, then away. Was that you? he asked finally.

Of course, she said.

How long have we been having a conversation? he asked.

Since I pointed out the cuteness of Black Canary’s coiffure? she said. Batman did not respond. What did you think was happening?

Intrusive thoughts.

She tried to look at his face sidelong, though she didn’t know why. Looking at him directly would make it no easier to decipher his minimal expressions. Do your intrusive thoughts often sound like me making observations about other women?

Sometimes.

Can you two keep it down? asked J'onn. Some of us are trying to pay attention.

No you’re not, Diana accused. You just heard gossip and wanted in.

We’re not gossiping, Batman said. Don’t make me break truce.

I had also noticed Black Canary’s hair, J'onn said, ignoring Batman.

Isn’t it cute? Diana asked.

Batman sighed.

Do you think I could pull it off? J'onn asked.

dick glares at doorbell, bouncing the toe of his sneaker off the brick and trying to decide whether or not to press the buzzer. it’s a gamble coming here; there’s a chance bruce already knows where he is and is waiting upstairs, and dick shouldn’t be this far from new york city but he wanted– he wanted– 

he wanted to talk to someone, someone who wasn’t an idiot, and that really narrowed down the list. especially when bruce and alfred were on thin fucking ice, playing house with their new robin, their new child, and screaming dick out of the house–

“you gonna come up or nah?” clark’s voice ripples through the static of the intercom but dick can hear the amusement. his cheeks go a little warm. he jams the tip of his finger into the rubber button. 

“how long did you know i was here?”

Written for kaciart. Sorry it took so long! Hope you like it;; Summary: “So,” Tim ventures. “It's… what, a cuddle pollen?” Bruce just shrugs. “Something like that.” Characters: Tim, Dick, Bruce, a bit of Damian. A brief warning. It’s hurt/comfort, and there is discussion of depression and a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. It’s, um, a lot fluffier than it sounds? –

Hey everyone! I’ve got a new fic at last! This is just like 4 super super soft scenes between Bruce & Dick, Dick & Damian, and Bruce & Damian with snuggles, forehead kisses, and all that good father son bonding. 

I hope you enjoy! 

AO3 Link

~

i

A rustling noise from outside caused Bruce to glance up from the book on aviation he was reading. His eyes scanned the driveway that led up to the front of the house, searching for a car. There was nothing but the swaying of trees, their leaves caught by a sudden burst of wind. It felt like the seventh such sudden in five minutes.

Bruce was sure it had been longer than that, but looking at the progress he’d made through his book one would think he’d only just sat down. Normally a fast reader, especially with content he was familiar with, Bruce would have been fifty pages further on a normal day, settled in his office with a cup of coffee or tea. Today, he was waiting, and that waiting kept dragging his attention up, off the pages, and outside.

He forced his attention back down to the chapter on early engine development and made it a few more paragraphs before he realized he’d taken in almost none of the text. Bruce sighed, and plucked the thin sticky note from where he’d put it on the cover off, placing it instead by the last bit of text he’d really understood and folded the book closed.

It was then that the actual sound of a car pricked at his ears, the hum of the engine and crunch of tires on the driveway declaring the arrival of those he’d been waiting on.

Bruce Wayne wonders when Dick Grayson stopped fitting under his cape. 

Once upon a time, a decade and a lifetime ago, he had a small little boy who was all of ten years old, whose smile tore at the very foundation of his being, who made every other important thing pale in comparison. A little boy who, if he had to, he would tear the world apart for, burn it down to ground to protect. 

A little boy who would hide under Bruce’s cape, clutching softly at his waist, cheek pressed against the small of his back, covered entirely in the fabric where no one who looked could tell there was anyone but Batman. He did it for no other reason than because he wanted to. It wasn’t because he was shy (Dick never was), or that he was afraid (Dick sometimes was, but he would never let Bruce know). To Dick, it was as simple as wanting to hold his Dad. 

Bruce remembers the first time it happened. It had been a slow night, and he knew that Robin was bored. He was looking at the streets carefully, making sure that nothing bad was happening when he felt two little arms wrap around him carefully. 

Bruce remembers tensing up, unsure of exactly what to do, swallowing a few times. The touch was so gentle, so fragile, so comforting. How long has it been since anything had comforted him the way this has? It was, for single moment in all of Bruce’s adult life, peaceful, like all the years no longer wore him down, like there was no sound of a gunshot that ringed in his ears every second of the day.

He remembers thinking that there must be a multiverse out there where Dick is doing the exact same thing, but this time he and Bruce are not in the dark streets of Gotham, awaiting a crime, but in the comforts of the Manor, a father and a son who is happy and undamaged and together. And Bruce - Bruce who does not pray, who does not believe in any other higher being than science and logic - thanks whatever god is up there for every multiverse with Dick Grayson in it. 

“You okay, chum?” 

“Yeah, B,” Dick says, nuzzling his face against Bruce’s back (comforting, comforting, comforting), “Juss’ tired is all.”

Bruce remembers removing his hands from his waist, turning and crouching down to look at Dick. 

The boy scratches his eyes, yawning, and he looks at Bruce. And when he smiles, he thinks that this right here is every good thing in the world. 

“Let’s go home,” Bruce says, scooping him up in his arms. Dick protests (like he always does), but he wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck and buries his face in his neck anyway, and Bruce wishes they could stay like that forever. 

But they didn’t. 

Somewhere between then and now, his son had grown up, and he wonders where all those years had gone. When was the last time he carried him to bed? Read to him? Hugged him after a bad dream? Who let his son grow up without him? 

Dick couldn’t hide under his cape even if folded into himself. A part of Bruce wanted him to be able to, to be able to use his cape as a shield between his first son and the whole wide world, to be able to know he could protect him the way he only way he knows how. 

But Dick would hate that, he knew. He raised nothing if not a fighter. 

Because he’s looking at his son right now - really looking at him - and Bruce realizes he has a young man who is twenty-four, almost twenty-five, whose smile still tore at the very foundation of his being, who still made every other important thing pale in comparison. 

A young man who is beside him, with him at every battle, as they save the world together. 

Right now, he is carrying Damian on his shoulders while Jason carries Tim. They play fight for a while in the pool, and Damian falls. The boys laugh (comforting comforting comforting), and Dick looks at him, and he smiles. 

Her luminescent smile slides off her face. “What’s the matter?”

Bruce closes his eyes. “I came here with a little boy. Black hair, blue eyes, about three foot ten. I need to find him.” Bruce steps around her, but she stops him with her hand.

“We can help!”

“Pardon?”

“The girls and I?” She gestures to the models staggered throughout the room. “We can help you find him.”

Damian: “baaaa…ba”

*bruce being interviewed at a Wayne charity event*

Damian: *tugs on Bruce’s sleeve* “Baba I’m tired can we go please?”

Dick would call it stalking, Alfred would call it ridiculous, and Bruce calls it checking up.

Whatever the preferred term, it entails ensuring Jason’s not bleeding out on his bathroom floor without Jason knowing about this. He doesn’t do it that often, but Jay had a run-in with Crane earlier tonight and he has no idea what happened.

Usually, the answer is nothing. This time, the cowl does not show the apartment’s solitary skeleton going to bed or watching TV or what-have-you. This time, the skeleton is curled on the bathroom floor.

Breaking in is easier than it should be, but he reasons that Jay may not have been in the right state of mind to reset his security all the way. Whatever the case, he’s inside in under five minutes.

Jason’s huddled in a ball, arms over his head. He’s still in his work clothes, sans helmet, but most of his weapons are in a pile (unlike him) outside the bathroom. Bruce can’t see any blood on him, but he’s clearly been exposed to Crane’s poison; he’s whimpering softly and trembling, occasionally flinching at noises outside.

“Jason.” Bruce settles down next to him and tugs the cowl off. “Jay. Can you hear me?”

“Please…”

“Jason.”

“No more, please, sir…m’sorry…won’t do it again…”

Oh, God.

It’s only rational, really, that he’d be thrown back to his time with Joker, but Bruce has no idea how to make that better. Before, on the handful of instances this had happened, Jason had been comforted well enough with a hug and a soft, steady stream of reassurances. Now? Bruce has no idea.

“Jay-lad, it…it’s Bruce.” Jason doesn’t react, poorly or otherwise. “Can you hear me?”

His only answer is a whine and a soft, “Please, stop…”

This particular batch, Bruce knows from unpleasant experience, has to wear off. And it will, eventually. Unfortunately, sedating the victims causes a deadly reaction, so there’s no other choice but to stay and make sure Jason doesn’t hurt himself, regardless of the fallout.

“Okay, Jay,” he breathes, “okay. I’m going to take your jacket off, all right? I’m not…” He knows (hopes) it’s the toxin, but that doesn’t make this easier. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jason doesn’t respond at all the time, and Bruce leans over, starts working him out of his jacket. He’s boneless, breath coming in harsh pants and eyes barely open, and Bruce isn’t sure whether to be grateful or whether to wish for some kind of struggle, some echo of the fighter he picked up all those years ago.

But then, Jason was never one to resist during the other episodes. It wasn’t until the third time that Bruce determined why.

“Okay, Jay-bird.” Bruce turns him onto his back. “It’s all right, you’re all right. You ran into Crane earlier, do you remember?”

“Mm…”

Removing the body armor is a little harder, and that does provoke a reaction-a half-hearted attempt to get up, to get away.

“Hold still for me, Jay, please.”

He goes limp again, limbs slack and head lolling, and for a few sickening seconds Bruce is transported back to a small black tape and a too-loud gunshot.

“Hurts…”

“Shh.”

Boots next, and several knives, and as much as it kills him, Bruce leaves him there to hunt up something a little more comfortable.

And to put his weapons where he won’t be able to get to them easily. He suspects that was the idea behind the pile outside the bathroom door.

He finds sweats and a t-shirt that’s clearly loved and returns to the bathroom. Jason’s curled back into himself, eyes squeezed shut and hands clenching his hair.

“Jason.” Nothing. “Jason, I’m going to get you into some comfortable clothing, all right?” Still nothing. He lets go of his hair when Bruce tugs on the hem of his shirt, though, and remains pliable (though nowhere near helpful) while being redressed. “Okay, Jay-bird, okay. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He’s still silent and unmoving when Bruce gets him up (he grew up, dear God, last time Bruce had carried him he’d been fourteen, all knobby knees and elbows that were a damn menace to anything on a table) and half-carries, half-drags him out of the bathroom. His eyes are open, though, when he’s laid in his bed.

“B?”

“I’m here, Jay.” He tucks him in and smooths his hair out of his face. “I’m right here.”

“Mm…”

Any water Bruce tries to give him won’t stay down. His best bet is to sleep through this, if he can.

“Are you warm enough?”

Jason doesn’t look like he understands what Bruce is asking.

“Don’ go.”

“I’m not–”

“Please don’ go, I’ll be better, I swear–”

Jay, no, no, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

“Shh, Jason.” There’s no way to make this right, but he has to try. “Shh. I’m here now, you’re okay.”

Jason’s not hearing him, or worse, not believing him.

“Please don’ leave me here, I’ll be better, jus’ don’ go I don’ wanna die–”

Bruce weighs the risks, figures he can handle the fallout, and pulls Jason into his arms.

“I’m here, Jay. I’m right here. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I’m here now, you’re safe, you’re in your own bed…”

Jason doesn’t struggle; for once, Bruce got it right. All he does is knot his hands around the cape and tuck his head under Bruce’s chin.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please don’t leave me with him.”

He’s trembling again, practically vibrating in Bruce’s arms, and Bruce peels a hand away and feels around until he comes up with a squishy blanket (that’s Nightwing’s symbol…Dick does not need to know about this, but Bruce is tempted to tell him anyway) that’s half-falling off the bed, wraps it around his shoulders.

“You’re okay, Jay, you’re okay. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

The shaking doesn’t stop but the pleading does and eventually he slumps a little more, frantic pants slowly easing into shallow, even breaths. Bruce cups his head (his hair’s still soft, and it’s grown out enough that it’s trying to curl at the ends) and winces at the feeling of old scars on his scalp.

“M’I dead?”

Oh, Jesus…

“No, Jay.” He tightens his grip. “You ran into Crane earlier, that’s all. You’re okay.”

“But y’re here.”

“Yes.”

There’s a spell of confused silence before Jason apparently deems it too much work to think about things further-he presses tighter against Bruce with a breathy, “’Kay.”

There’s a crackle in his ear and Dick’s voice comes over the coms.

“B? You there?”

“Mm.”

“You find Jay?”

“He made it home. He’ll be fine.”

“Do I need to go over there?”

There’s canned laughter from somebody’s TV set and Jason cringes, draws into a ball as best he can. Bruce moves his hand over his shoulders, feeling old scars. They’ve blended together, now; there’s one he knows is from a run-in with one of Ivy’s plants, but it’s intersected by another he doesn’t recognize.

“No, I’m here already. Thanks, Dick.”

“You sure?”

Sometimes he thinks Dick thinks he’s incapable of making sure they don’t d-hurt themselves. He would like to point out that Dick not only made it to adulthood, he made it without falling off the ballroom chandelier and cracking his head on the floor. (There may or may not have been some barbed wire up there as a deterrent.)

“Yes.”

“Okay. Call me if you need me. I mean it.”

“Hn.” 

Jason’s fingers loosen on the cape and Bruce feels him force in a shuddery breath.

“B?”

“I’m here, Jay. I’ve got you.”

“Don’ go.”

“Shh.” He rubs his arms, feels him shiver. “Shh, shh. I’m here. I’m here and you’re safe, I promise.”

He moves so he’s more propped against Bruce’s shoulder, head against his collarbone. Bruce has an old (painful, now) memory of him doing the same at fourteen, after a screaming nightmare.

“Dad?”

“I’m here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He nods, sort of, and slumps further.

“’Kay.”

And that, Bruce thinks, is as good as it gets right now.

ok forewarning i really am just pulling these for my own enjoyment.. fanon is my safe zone who knows what canon is Really

damian and duke bond after being the two youngest official waynes in a way that damian was never able to do with any of the others, with dick being his closest but still being closer to a mentor than just a fun brother figure so when duke comes in it’s like. what is this new thing

and duke realizes that neither he nor damian has had this fun of having a brother to just have fun with and instead of the pranking and sometimes mean stuff between the other siblings it’s very close in a way that hasn’t existed in the wayne house.. maybe ever?? bruce is fascinated by the fact that duke came in and damian just bonded so easily- practically unprecedented with him

so they learn each other stuff where damian and duke venture into the kitchen to spend time learning from alfred but also from each other, duke makes damian watch all his favorite artsy movies bc duke enjoys the writing and damian loves the cinematography, damian immediately gets duke roped into his pet adoption schemes and suddenly duke is right there alongside him begging for the next hamster or lizard to join the batfamily roster, they just bounce off each other so Well that it’s a common thing now that there’s not really a need to call in dick to calm damian down bc duke’s gonna be right there comforting him until the nightmares and fear pass

Damian was in the Cave, waiting by the computer while Batman typed up the report for the night’s patrol. Nothing unusual had happened, just a mugging or two.

The roar of a powerful engine interrupted the quiet. Two motorcycles peeled into the Cave, and Red Robin and Red Hood and Cass and Duke dismounted while engaged in some lively conversation.

“Hey, B. Robin,” Timothy called.

Damian humphed, and turned back toward the screen.

The four vigilantes disappeared into the locker rooms, taking their rowdy laughter with them.

Damian could see the reflection of the bikes in the computer monitor.

He looked back, and he had been mistaken, before. There were three motorcycles.

The third was Richard’s.

This wasn’t right. Damian reached back to tap on his Father’s shoulders, but he must have left already because the chair was empty. In an absurd burst of childish fear, Damian ducked under the desk and hid.

Richard couldn’t be here. He was dead.