#dcu comics

Later, Jason sitting in Dick's apartment, playing a video game: Any reason reporters think Batman and Bruce are dating?

Dick, not paying any attention: Didn't he give birth to you?

Jason: ???? What the F*CK!?

—

Much later, Jason being told Catherine wasn't his bio Mom before seeing his birth certificate: Oh my god. Batman gave birth to me.

—

Bruce: I'm fine, Nightwing.

Dick: Sure you aren't pregnant again?

Bruce:

Bruce: What?

Dick: You really gotta start using protection.

—

Dick, half asleep during movie night: Can't believe you slept with Willis Todd.

Jason, a full adult: Both my Dad's are hoes.

Bruce: . . .

—

Timbin: Hi, Mr. Nightwing Robin Dick Grayson Sir!!! I'm Tim Drake—

Dick: I KNEW BRUCE SLEPT WITH JACK DRAKE!!!

Timbin: . . . Clearly you're still deeply affected by the death of Jason Todd.

—

Tim, after spending a week with Dick: . . . Dad?

Jack: Yes, son?

Tim: Did Bruce Wayne give birth to me?

Jack:

Jack: Are you doing drugs with Ives??

—

Stephanie:

Dick: I—

Stephanie: Make the joke and I'll make sure you lack your namesake.

Dick: Understood.

—

Tim, walking into the cave: Alfred said Bruce won't be patrolling tonight. I think he was complaining about stomach cramps.

Dick: All the pregnancies really did a number on him.

Jason: Probably Tim's fault, on his medical records it said he was born nearly ten pounds.

Dick: What happened, Tim?! You're so tiny now.

Jason: To bad he didn't consider abortion.

Tim: I wish he aborted you!

Jason: He probably tried to abort you! Your a#& just dodged the hanger.

Tim: Maybe you should've taken note and dodged that crowbar.

Dick: Guys, stop making abortion and death jokes! But to be technical I was the easiest pregnancy—

Damian: WHAT IS EVERYONE TALKING ABOUT?!

Tim, grinning at Jason:

Jason, clearing his throat: I think it's time you found this out Damian...

Dick, dramatically placing a hand on Damian's shoulder: Bruce gave birth to us all.

Damian:

Damian: What?

Jason: Think about it. Who would be insane enough to not abort Tim?

Damian: . . . Father.

Tim: Do you really think Talia Al Ghul would spend nine months undergoing the hardships of pregnancy?

Damian: I . . . No . . . Wait . . .

Dick: Jason didn't die searching for his birth Mother, Dami.

Jason, trying not to laugh: The Joker was jealous that he wasn't the Father, Damian. He killed me because I wasn't his.

Damian: You're all liars!

Jason: It's true! Batman and The Joker were in a very committed relationship!

Dick: My Dad is actually the Joker.

Damian: . . . what .

Dick: Who do you think gave me my love of the circus, Dames?

Tim: It was before the acid incident, obviously.

Jason: Batman cheated on him, that's how I was born.

Damian: . . . Batman gave birth to me?

Tim: Batman gave birth to all of us, Damian.

Duke, in the background: I am not a part of this!

—

Damian, the next time he meets with Talia: Mother?

Talia: Yes, my heart?

Damian: Is it true that Grayson was the Joker and Batman's child and that Todd was born out of wedlock from Batman which is what led to him being murdered and their divorce and that Timothy was birthed by Batman from an affair and that you got Batman pregnant and he also birthed me?

Talia, taking his face in her hands:

Talia: I wasn't supposed to tell you until you were older.

—

Bruce: Dick, Jason?

Dick: Yeah, B?

Jason: What?

Bruce: Can you please stop telling your siblings elaborate stories regarding me birthing them?

Jason: No.

Dick: What? No harm no foul!

Bruce, inhaling sharply: Damian beat the Joker within an inch of his life today, screaming "Why couldn't you love Todd as your own?" And then, as he was being taken to Arkham, shouted, "Do you know what the divorce did to Grayson!?"

Jason:

Dick:

Bruce: Tim still thinks I slept with his Father.

Jason: Didn't you?

Bruce: Jason.

Jason: Bruce.

Dick: Okay, so, maybe it's a little bit out of hand...

Bruce: Damian think you're a child of divorce between me and the Joker! Harley Quinn keeps asking why the Joker didn't even get weekends with you!

Jason: Maybe you should've thought about that before getting the divorce.

Bruce: Jason. Peter. Todd. Wayne.

Dick: Look, B, it's not that bad! It's funny. Dami will grow up and realize it was a stupid prank.

Jason: The story bits yeah.

Bruce: . . . Jay, what do you mean the story bits?

Jason: He'll still know you birthed us all.

Bruce:

Dick:

Dick: Jason. You know that Sheila is the one who actually gave birth to you, right?

Jason:

Jason: Dick. You told me that you picked out my middle name.

Dick:

Bruce:

Jason:

Dick: Now you're f*cking with us.

Jason: I could be. I could not be. But either way, betrayal happened in this room tonight.

Bruce: Dick.

Dick: Okay, fine, I'll stop telling people you birthed us and let the Joker raw dog you...

—

Meanwhile, many years earlier, the one time a reporter interacted with Alfred:

it’s a friday night. the night you spend with dick unpacking your entire week and then drink to it.

you’re on your way back from the bathroom when you see him. your ex, standing near the bar like he belongs there, and your whole body does that involuntary thing before your brain has even caught up. he spots you before you can redirect. the smile that never quite reaches his eyes. the way he steps into your space too easily, like the last year didn’t happen.

you laugh at something he says because it’s reflex, because it’s easier, your shoulders drawing in without you meaning for them to. he presses his number into your hand with a casualness that makes your skin feel wrong and you smile your most noncommittal smile and walk away.

you slide back into the booth and dick is already looking at you.

he has very blue eyes and a very irritating habit of seeing straight through you with them.

“who was that,” he says.

“my ex.” you reach for your drink. “it’s fine.”

his jaw does something quiet and controlled. “he give you his number?”

“dick—”

“he gave you his number.”

“it wasn’t like that—”

“cool. cool,” he says, and picks up his drink, and smiles the smile that’s all surface, and you know exactly what that smile means.

the walk home is three blocks and dick spends all of them somewhere else entirely.

normally he fills every silence — some joke, some completely unnecessary observation about whatever you’re passing. tonight his hands are in his pockets and his eyes are forward and he says nothing.

“you’re doing that thing,” you say.

“what thing.”

“the thing where you pretend you’re fine.”

“i’m fine.”

“richard.”

“i’m tired,” he says. “it’s been a long week, angel.”

you both know that’s not it.

you make it as far as the hallway outside your apartments before you stop.

he’s already reaching for his keys and something about the set of his shoulders, the careful performance of it, makes you reach out and catch his arm.

he turns.

you kiss him.

it takes him exactly one second and then his keys hit the floor and his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you back with something desperate and unguarded that he’s been keeping very carefully under wraps all evening. a low groan muffled against your mouth, his fingers curling into your jaw, walking you back against the wall without breaking it.

when he pulls back he’s breathing harder than usual.

he looks at you for a moment. then he bends and picks up his keys and opens his door and picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

later he has you underneath him and there’s nothing easy about it tonight.

he pushes in slow and the stretch of him makes your breath stutter, thick and girthy, the flushed red tip of him pressing through your plushy folds and sinking into your gummy walls inch by inch until you’ve taken all of him and your walls are fluttering around the fullness of it.

his jaw is tight. his eyes on your face.

“why do you want him back,” he says. low and rough.

“i don’t—”

he snaps his hips forward and the words evaporate entirely.

“hm?” he pulls back and drives in again, his cock dragging against your walls, you feel, oh, so full and overwhelmed all at once. “why him.”

“dick i’m not—i—”

your eyes shut. the pleasure too much, the words bleeding into a moan.

“eyes on me,” he says quietly.

you open them.

and that’s when you see it. something vulnerable in his expression, unguarded and unusual, the kind of thing he’d never let you see if he were thinking straight. something that’s been sitting underneath all of this for a long time.

“why do you want him,” he murmurs, hips rolling and pressing deep, the head of his cock nudging that soft spot inside you that makes your toes curl, “when you have me.”

it’s not cocky. it’s almost like he’s desperate to hear the answer. desperate to hear you say he’s enough. that what you have with each other is enough.

heat builds low in your belly, your body sensitive from the drag of him, your walls clenching greedily around his girth every time he pulls back.

your mouth opens. what comes out is a garbled mess of his name and something that isn’t words at all.

“yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “that’s what i thought.”

something releases in him after that. his pace picks up and you stop trying to think at all, hands gripping his shoulders, your slick walls taking him over and over until the heat that’s been building low in your belly crests and you come apart underneath him with a broken sound, clenching tight around him. he follows shortly after, hips stuttering, a low groan muffled into your throat as he spills into the condom, his whole body shuddering through it.

afterward he’s on his back and you’re tucked against his side.

“i can make carbonara from scratch. i remember how you take your coffee. i’ve sat through every terrible film you’ve picked on a friday night without a single complaint.” he’s quiet for a second. “i’ve been your boyfriend for six months. you just haven’t called me that yet.

you look at him.

“maybe i should,” you say quietly.

he’s very still for a moment. then his hand finds yours and laces with you. warm and calloused and big.

“it was nothing,” you say. “tonight. with him. i don’t want him back. i never did.”

the breath that leaves him is slow. like he’s been holding it since the bar.

“obviously i don’t want him,” you say. “i want you. i’ve wanted you for a while.”

he turns his head to look at you. really look.

“yeah?” he says softly.

“yeah,” you say.

he brings your hand up and presses his lips to your knuckles, and settles back against the pillow.

the city hums outside. the lamp stays on.

“friday nights,” he says eventually. “same booth.”

“same booth,” you agree.

“except now i’m going to hold your hand across the table and if your ex shows up again i’m going to be very annoying about it.”