Bruce, back in the Cave: if you can do this handstand for five minutes straight I’ll teach you how to dislocate someone’s elbow without breaking it

Tim, shaking like a chihuahua: and?

Bruce, sighing: and afterwards we can run the evac simulator together

Tim now upside down: with—

Suddendly Bruce enters the room: "Kids, that Christmas Eve we are with the Kents. Pack your luggaes we're going to Smallville."

this is the better art i had and i was waiting to post it

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Tim at any minor inconvenience:

Bruce Wayne / Batman x Adopted Child Reader

Warnings; Mentions of past child neglect and abuse Medical trauma and experiences with Type 1 Diabetes Self-harm and internalized guilt/self-hatred Gentle but emotional conversations about trauma and worth Comfort, unconditional love, and healing Both Dexcom and traditional test strips are used.

This is soooo self insert, I have issues man but hopefully this helps me and someone else who might need it. My parental issues kicking my ass today.

This is platonic if you can't tell, just parent kid dynamic stuff, don't be weird.

Masterlist

No sirens blaring from the city. No alarms triggered by Gotham’s rogues. Just the low hum of the computers and the steady echo of Bruce’s boots against the concrete.

And yet, his mind wasn't on Gotham’s chaos.

It was on you.

You, the child he'd brought into his home with eyes that never quite met his.

You, with your carefully logged blood sugar numbers and trembling hands during insulin injections.

You, who had come from too many places that only saw your diagnosis—Type 1 Diabetes—as a price tag.

Bruce had seen the file before even meeting you. Dozens of foster placements. “Returned” repeatedly.

“Multiple failed placements.”

“Emotional withdrawal.

“Requires daily insulin injections, continuous glucose monitoring, regular endocrinology visits.”

The last few lines are what killed him.

“Sweet kid. But too expensive.”

“Financial burden cited as main reason for placement return.”

It made Bruce sick. Not because of your condition, but because of the way the system had made you believe you were less because of it.

When he met you in person, you barely looked up. When he brought you to the manor, you refused to unpack.

At your first doctors appointment with him, he chose to sit in the room with you. That's when he saw. Scars. Thin and deliberate.

But he didn't say anything. He knew it was too soon and that it'd only make you hide even more.

Still, he made a habit to check in on you every few hours, even if it was just walking by whatever room you were in. But it wasn't just you two in the manor.

It was Jason who said something first.

He walked into the study one evening, shoulders squared and mouth already twitching with irritation. “Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the files. “What is it?”

“I found a stash of juice boxes under the new kid’s bed,” Jason said bluntly. “Like... a lot. Some were expired. There were also test strips."

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Jason kept going. “They’re hiding food. Medical supplies. That’s not normal. And they barely flinch when I talk to them, but when Alfred raised his voice earlier? They go still like a statue. Like they’re waiting to get hit.”

That last part hit Bruce like a gut punch.

“They’re scared,” Jason said, tone softening for once. “Not just of you. Of needing anything. They look at the fridge like it’s a crime scene. And Bruce...” He paused, hesitant now.

"I- I thought I saw them trying to hurt themselves"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dick came by the next day.

He crouched in the Batcave beside Bruce, eyes flicking over the surveillance feed. The screen showed you sitting quietly on the back lawn, knees to your chest.

“Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Dick asked carefully.

Bruce didn’t answer at first.

“I mean... adopting a kid with a chronic illness?” Dick continued. “I’m proud of you, don’t get me wrong. But that’s a lot. Trauma, medical care, supplies—”

“They’re not a case file,” Bruce interrupted, voice firm but calm. “They’re a child. My child. They just need a chance. Not to be told they’re too much again.”

Dick nodded slowly, gaze softening as he looked back at the screen. “…They remind me of me. When you first brought me here. Except quieter.”

“They’ve been told that their life costs too much to love,” Bruce murmured. “We’re going to unteach that.”

It was late when he found you again—hunched over in your room, knees tucked to your chest, the juice box on the nightstand half-drunk and your Dexcom meter beeping softly. You looked like you’d shrunk into yourself, trying to disappear under the blanket you brought from the last group home.

Bruce crouched beside the bed.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You flinched, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you. I thought I’d wait it out. I know the juice is expensive and I already—”

"Hey now, we have plenty of juice for this exact reason. Its alright, just sit tight and I'll go get you another one okay? I'll be right back I promise"

And true to his word he came right back, strawberry juice in hand. He sat next to you watching in a way that you didn't feel his eyes, just to make sure the shaking stoped.

But the healing didn’t come overnight. There were rough patches. Nighttime panic attacks when your site alarm woke you and you panicked, thinking Bruce would get mad. Moments where you'd skip meals. Times you stood too long in the mini medicine fridge he had gotten for you, staring at the insulin pens as if they would disappear.

But Bruce was patient.

He hired a trauma-informed therapist. He let you sit in on calls with your endocrinologist. He explained your CGM trends like a detective solving a case, showing you that your body wasn’t wrong—it just needed attention.

A few days later, Jason tossed a glucose tab packet at you during patrol prep. “Your sugar’s 78. You’re trending down. Don’t be dumb.”

You blinked.

“…That’s his way of saying he cares,” Dick translated as he adjusted himself.

You blinked again. “…Oh.”

Jason rolled his eyes but walked past you, gently knocking his fist against your shoulder. “You pass out on me and I swear to God I’m carrying you like a backpack for the rest of your life.”

You smiled.

And Bruce, watching from the Batcomputer, finally let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

You're still healing. Some days are harder. But the guilt doesn't live as loud in your chest anymore. And when your Dexcom beeps, you don’t hide. You ask. You treat. You take care of yourself.

Tim does it specifically to Bruce and no one else.

Bruce, in the medbay, after being shot: Alfred, can we close the curtain?

Alfred, pointedly not staring at Tim: No.