#mom reader

the bell above the bakery door chimed a cheerful greeting when you pushed it open, your son’s small glove-covered hand clasped firmly in yours. the scent hit you, heavenlike– warm vanilla, butter, and something cinnamon-sweet that made your mouth water. you shifted your feet as you fell into line, five bodies from the counter, feeling the dull ache in the curve of your feet from the double shift you worked the other day. it was worth it; of course it was worth it. every extra hour was worth it when it went to your baby. if it was possible, you would wrap the whole world in a big bow and hand it to him– in disney printed wrapping paper. 

“mommy, how long?” khalil bounced on his toes, his head swiveling around the bakery in absolute wonder. you were sure this looked like something out of his storybooks– golden lights spilling from vintage fixtures overhead and casting everything in a honey-glow. display cases lined the entire front, packed with rows of perfect pastries. bakers in white aprons moved with practiced efficiency behind, boxing orders and calling out names. 

“we just got here, honey. patience is a virtue,” you shift forward, khalil following close by your side, as the first person in line gathers their order and heads for the door. four people now. “they’re making your cake extra, extra special, remember?”

you watch as his eyes grow wide, reflecting the oval shapes from the light fixtures overhead. “with mickey mouse?”

“with mickey mouse.” you confirmed, squeezing his hand gently. “the biggest mickey mouse they could fit on a cake.”

khalil practically jumped with joy, letting out a small cheer and beaming up at you. in return, you chuckle nervously– shushing him as quietly as you could. “hush now, khalil. mind your manners.”

but no one seems to pay the two of you any attention. the tables and booths are practically empty, and those who do occupy the space are deep in conversation. your eyes flicker to the line of people in front of you– they’re mostly all bundled up to some degree; wearing long sleeved shirts and sweaters, hats, long pants. your eyes linger on one in particular sporting a clearly oversized winter jacket, paired with a plaid wool scarf wrapped around their neck and over their head. your gaze is only disrupted when your own lightweight jacket is tugged. 

“please, can i go look?”

you follow the direction khalil is pointing, eyes landing on the display case to the right of the cashier’s counter. removing your hand from his, you bring it up to caress his cheek, your chest tight with love so fierce it almost hurts. “of course, baby. i’ll be over here.” you smile, blinking back the sudden ambush of motherly emotions. 

six years old this weekend. 

six years of goodnight kisses, scraped knees, bedtime stories. six years of doing it mostly alone, save for your tiny village of friends and family, making every dollar stretch. making every moment count. his father’s absence was a dull ache you’d learned to live with, but moments like this– watching your baby’s face light up over the wonders of life– made everything worth it. 

the bell above the door chimes, bringing in a gust of early morning december chill and the faint scent of smog from the streets. you turn slightly, watching as a father and daughter amble to a separate counter for a closer look at the menu before returning your focus to your son. he’s shifted down, now in front of cookies nearly the size of your hand. khalil presses closer– breath fogging and clearing on the glass casing.

you jump when he suddenly turns, waving two tiny arms to get the attention that was already his. he’s not satisfied when you only raise an eyebrow in question, now using his hand to wave you closer; practically vibrating with energy. you glance at the empty streets behind you through the clear windows, wondering if you would be pushed back far in line if you left your spot and joined your son at the display cases. 

fuck it.

“can we get cookies too?” the question is out of his mouth before you even come to a stop next to him.

like a reflex, the mental calculator is opened. the cake had already stretched the budget, with all of it’s layers and the addition of donald duck’s character alongside mickey mouse to surprise khalil. the decorations were your main splurge– though you’d had help with this the most. you’d had a visitor to your home nearly once a day for a week straight; your brother bringing streamers and confetti, your sister bringing a van full of balloons, your closest friends with the tablecloths, plating, signage. your mother came along with you to pick out half a cart-full of presents.

khalil continues his rambling, “lucas would like the chocolate one ‘cause he’s always drinkin’ chocolate milk during lunch time. and denise would want the pink one ‘cause pink is her favorite, i think. she has a pink lunchbox, pink bookbag, pink things in her hair… what are those called…?”

you just didn’t know if it was possible. your next check was still two and a half weeks away, and you’d yet to devote some to your gas bill. though, this month had been warmer than usual, so much so that you barely had to turn on your heating system. maybe it would wind up being less than you thought it would be…

but glancing down at the price tag, your stomach sank. they were paid by the dozen and more expensive than you could pull– low gas bill or not.

you crouch down beside him, gently pulling his hands away from the glass and pressing them between yours. “baby, not today, okay?”

“but i could share with lucas and denise at my party! please? not even one for me and you?”

you repeat your previous statement, voice gentle but firm, watching as his little shoulders slump. another name is called and the line shifts forward. three people in front of you, as long as another customer didn’t walk in and take your spot. you stand and take khalil’s hand once again, but pause briefly when you get the distant feeling of being watched.

a quick glance over your shoulder confirms your suspicions when you see the person in the oversized jacket turn their–his?–head away from you, rocking his weight to the heels of his feet and back. you pay him no mind, returning your attention to khalil. “but you’ve got that big treat waitin’ on you just past these counters. and tell you what, i’ll help you cut a piece just for your friends and you can give it to them personally. that sound good?”

his posture straightens almost immediately, toothy grin returning to his face as he nods up at you. “okay, mommy.”

but when you turn, you only make it a few steps before khalil stops short. you feel it in the way his hand goes rigid in yours, in the sudden stillness of his entire body. following his gaze, you see what had captured his attention so completely. 

it was the man who’d just been watching you. he was closer to the two of you now, with an older looking man standing inches to his left. from the front you could see there, pinned to the polyester of his winter jacket, was a silver mickey mouse pin. it was beautiful– vintage, possibly, with mickey’s arms thrown out to the sides and a wide-mouthed smile. 

khalil’s voice was filled awe as he whispers, “look…”

before you could stop him, before you could even process what was happening, khalil dropped your hand. “baby–” you started, but he was already moving; prancing toward the stranger with the single-minded determination only a child could possess. 

“excuse me, mister!” 

you were mortified instantly, heart dropping to your stomach as you jogged slightly to catch up to him. this kid was going to be the death of you. you had no idea where he’d gotten his extrovert tendencies from, but it surely wasn’t you.

the older man stepped slightly forward, body angling in front of the younger in a way that had your eyebrows furrowing. even more so when, in return, the younger lays a hand on the older man’s arm– making him step back to his previous position. 

reaching for your son’s shoulder, you pull him back until his body meets the front of your legs. “m’so sorry, sir–” you cut yourself off when the man crouches down to khalil’s eye level, soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

he was absolutely beautiful, from what you could see. golden-brown skin that seemed to glow in the light of the bakery, high cheekbones, and the most expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. there was something familiar about him, something that nagged at the edge of your consciousness, though you couldn’t place it. 

the rest of his face hides beneath the wool of his scarf, only being revealed when he pulls it down to speak, “hi there. what’s your name?”

you feel your breath catch as your mind fills in the blanks– that genuine, gentle smile that transforms his entire face, the soft-spoken manner of his voice, the few dark curls falling across his forehead, the older man acting as a bodyguard of sorts. you were in a bakery with michael jackson. your son had managed to pick michael jackson out of a room full of people to bother. you felt like throwing up at the thought of taking time away from his day.

khalil, on the other hand, beamed– always happiest in the line of such direct attention. “khalil– with a ‘kh’, not a ‘c’.” he reached out to run a finger over the pin on michael’s jacket, not caring for a single second about your many ‘boundaries’ lectures. “that’s mickey mouse.”

“it is,” michael looks down and back up at your son, “d’you like mickey mouse?”

“uh-huh!” khalil nods so enthusiastically that his whole body moves with it. his hands fly around him as he speaks, “he’s my absolute favorite! donald duck, too.”

“is that right?” his smile grows warmer, more genuine, if that was even possible. it’s almost like you've been hypnotized, in a trance as you look at the curve of his lips. “mickey is my favorite too.”

“really?” khalil’s voice pitches up with his excitement. “i’m gonna be six on saturday, and my mommy’s getting me a cake with him on it! that’s why we're here.”

“six? that’s a very important birthday.”

you finally find your voice, reaching your arm down to pat your son's chest. “well, honey, i’m sure this nice man has things to do. we should head–”

“it’s okay,” michael speaks gently, his eyes shifting upward to meet yours for the first time. there's nothing calculated about it– just a natural glance, the kind you’d give a stranger to be polite. but then his gaze settles, and something in his expression softens, smile faltering. it’s brief, barely a second, but you feel it like a small current of electricity. he blinks at you and exhales slowly, seemingly without realizing it. “really, i don't mind at all.”

“but… are you sure?” your voice is quieter, hesitant. for a second you wish you had your son's courage– because as a woman in your twenties with a very obvious attraction to the man in front of you, you felt like you were dying under the weight of his attention. 

even more so when his eyes lower purposefully down your body, to your feet, and all the way back to your eyes. one side of his mouth curves up as he replies, “positive.”

khalil tugs on michael's arm, very undeterred by the adult conversation happening above his head. “mister, do you want to come? to my birthday party? it’s at the park, and there’ll be games, and my mickey mouse cake! mommy says we can play on the new swingsets–”

a second wave of mortification hits you as you bring a hand to cover your son's mouth. you can still hear him, muffled, listing out everything about his party. 

“khalil, baby, no–” you look down at michael with an embarrassed smile, “i am so sorry. he gets excited and doesn't think– swear we don't just invite strangers to– i mean, clearly, you’re busy and–”

but you get cut off by michael laughing. not mockingly– it was a soft, delicate sound that transformed every inch of his face. he looked so much younger when he laughed…boyish, almost. your eyes linger, once again, on the way his bottom lip pulls down and slightly to the side when he smiles. 

“you know what?” he starts, attention returning to khalil. “i just might be available on saturday.”

your heart nearly stops. “huh?” 

“really?!” khalil bounces on his toes, his little fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. “you’ll really come? do you like the chocolate cake with red inside? i forget what it's called…”

as khalil is talking, you watch michael look up at his bodyguard(?). they engage in some silent back and forth, ending with his bodyguard nodding subtly and michael grinning before turning back to khalil. “red velvet is the best.”

“mister, you–”

“michael,” he cuts you off with that same lazy smile, dimple deep in his right cheek. “just michael.”

“m-michael, you really don’t have to– i mean, it’s going to be a bunch of six year olds runnin’ around screaming. nothin’ fancy.”

he stands at his full height before asking, “i'm sorry, what was your name?” michael leans toward you and you stutter over your own name, distracted by the dark floral, musky cologne he wears. your heart stutters in your chest when he reaches his hand out to you– shaking yours delicately, all the while repeating your name under his breath. “nothin’ fancy sounds perfect.”

you paused, looking between michael’s patient smile and your son’s hopeful face. khalil, falling into another bragging ramble, begins to mention his birthday piñata, exclaiming that michael had to be there to see it. 

this was insane. this was absolutely insane. but, “okay. yes. if you really want to come, we’d… we’d love to have you.”

and if the power went out in that moment, you didn’t think you’d notice, because michael’s smile could have lit up the whole bakery. 

“then i’ll be there. here–”  he breaks his hold on your hand and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a marker. he glances around, eyes landing on his bodyguard–at least, that was officially his title in your mind– and sighing when his bodyguard shakes his head ‘no’. 

catching onto what he needs, you fumble around in your purse before producing a receipt, hand shaking slightly as you take the marker from him. though, you're soon the one glancing around for a solid spot to write. you glance over when you hear a zip and watch in pure shock as michael opens his oversized jacket, grabs the receipt, and holds it up to his chest. waiting.

he lets out a low chuckle at the state of you, mouth agape and blinking repetitively. wrapping a hand around your wrist, he pulls your hand with the marker up– telling you what to do without words. you can feel his breath across the top of your head as you step closer.

when you’re finished writing your phone number and the park’s address, you hand the paper and marker back to him. “saturday at two o’clock,” you speak, watching as michael looks over your handwriting. “should i write that, as well?”

“no. i won’t forget.”

he tucks the receipt into the pocket of his pants, khalil cheering in the background. the line shifts and the woman behind the counter calls for the next person. michael glances toward the counter, then back to you and khalil– eyes lingering on you as he says, “that’s me. it was really nice meeting you both.” he ruffles khalil’s hair gently, “see ya saturday, birthday boy.”

“bye, mr. michael!” khalil waves enthusiastically as you lead him back to your spot in line; just one behind michael. you watch as he approaches the counter– scarf back in place and jacket zipped,, speaking to the woman in tones too low to hear. he gestures to the display cases, pointing at something. the woman nods as she simultaneously pulls items from the case– a box, some bags. the transaction seemed to take longer than it should have, but you were distracted by khalil’s excited chatter.

“mommy, did you see? he has a mickey pin just like the one i want! and now he gets to come to my party! this is the best day ever! well, until my party– then that’ll be the best day ever!”

“mhm, i saw, baby. i'm happy you’re happy.” you squeezed his hand, your mind still reeling. was all of this really happening? how would you warn your family?

michael finished at the counter, accepting several bags and boxes from the woman– though most ended up in the arms of his bodyguard. he gives you and your son a gentle smile and a small wave on his way out. you think about it as you wait the final stretch in line, only coming back to reality when the woman calls, “next!”

you approach the counter, khalil still bouncing beside you. “hi, i'm here to pick up a pre-order. under–”

“oh, sweetie, you're all set.” the woman interrupted, her smile knowing. “your friend already took care of everything.”

“...i'm sorry, what?”

she gestured to a pale blue box and two large bags sitting on the counter. “he paid for your order. the mickey mouse cake and…” she pushed the bags toward you. “some extras.”

your hands trembled as you opened the first bag. inside were the cookies khalil had been admiring– chocolate chip, sugar, oatmeal, fudge, ones with different frosted designs. even a few of the ones khalil had pointed out for his friend denise; all in the perfect shade of pink. 

“mommy?” khalil stepped onto the tip of his toes, peering into the bag. his eyes went wide as he gasped, “are those–”

the second bag had much of the same, but with some extra miscellaneous pastries scattered throughout. treats you never would have bought, could never have afforded.

“he said this is an extra ‘happy birthday’ to your son,” the woman lets out a conspiring giggle before speaking again, “he also said he left some things for the boys ‘beautiful mom’… but he told me not to repeat that part.”

The morning sun filtered through the kitchen curtains, casting golden stripes across the countertop where you were attempting to make pancakes. Attempting being the key word, because your daughter had very specific opinions about the shape they should be.

"Mama, that one looks like a blob," your daughter, Lily, announced from her perch on the kitchen stool, her dark hair (which she got from her father) still mussed from sleep.

"A blob can be a shape," you defended, flipping the admittedly misshapen pancake.

"Not a good one."

You were about to respond when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, and lips pressed against your neck. "I think your blobs are perfect," Dick murmured against your skin, his voice still rough with sleep.

"You're biased," you teased, but you were already melting back against his chest, the familiar warmth of him seeping through your thin sleep shirt.

"Oh definitely," he agreed, spinning you around with the easy grace that never quite left him, even in domestic moments like these. Even after seven years of marriage, three years of parenthood, and countless mornings exactly like this one, your breath still caught when those blue eyes focused on you like you were the only person in the world. "Biased toward my beautiful wife who's making breakfast for our family. Sue me."

"Daddy, you're being gross," Lily groaned at him, though she was grinning.

"Gross?" Dick gasped in mock offense, releasing you to scoop Lily up in one fluid motion, flipping her upside down as she shrieked with laughter. "I'll show you gross, little miss."

You watched them with a smile, turning back to rescue the pancakes before they burned. This was your favorite version of Dick Grayson — not Nightwing, not even the charming socialite he could be when the situation called for it, but this one. The one barefoot in pajama pants and an old Gotham Knights t-shirt, hair sticking up in every direction, making your daughter giggle so hard she could barely breathe.

"Dick, the baby," you warned, and he immediately righted Lily, settling her back on her stool with an apologetic kiss to her forehead.

"Sorry, Mama's right. Gotta be careful with the little guy." His hand found your hip, thumb stroking absently over the small bump barely visible beneath your shirt. Four months along, and he still looked at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Or girl," you reminded him, plating the pancakes.

"Or girl," he agreed, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate. You swatted his hand, but he caught your wrist, bringing it to his lips. "Have I mentioned you're gorgeous this morning?"

"You mentioned I make good blobs."

"The best blobs." He grinned, that devastating smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. "But seriously, you're glowing."

"That's sweat from standing over a hot stove, babe."

"Nope, definitely glowing." He released your wrist to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"You said that last night." You shook your head a bit sheepishly and nudged his arm

"I'll say it tonight too." He leaned in, and you met him halfway, the kiss soft and sweet and tasting like stolen bacon.

"Still gross!" Lily announced, but she was smiling around a mouthful of pancake.

The morning continued in comfortable chaos. Dick helping Lily get dressed while you cleaned up breakfast, the three of you negotiating what constituted appropriate clothing for a trip to the park. (Lily wanted to wear her tutu. Dick supported this decision. You were outnumbered, and you didn't mind because she looked so damn cute.)

By the time you made it to the park, the sun was high and warm, and Lily was racing toward the playground with the boundless energy of childhood. Dick's hand found yours automatically, fingers lacing together as you walked.

"Think we'll be able to keep up with two of them?" you asked, watching Lily scale the climbing structure with an ease that spoke to her genetics.

"Are you kidding? We're going to be outnumbered and exhausted." Dick brought your joined hands to his lips, the biggest grin on those lips of his. "I can't wait."

You laughed, leaning into his side. "You're insane."

"About you? Absolutely." He tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Have been since the day we met."

"That's not what you said when we met. I believe your exact words were 'nice to meet you' and then you spilled coffee on my shoes."

"I was distracted by your smile," he defended. "And I bought you new shoes."

"You bought me very expensive new shoes and then asked me to dinner."

"Best investment I ever made." His arm slipped around your waist, hand splaying possessively over your hip. "Look at me now. Beautiful wife, amazing daughter, another baby on the way, and I still get to come home to you every night."

You tilted your head up to look at him, finding his expression soft and open in the way it only was with you and Lily. "You're really happy?"

"Happy?" He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. Both hands came up to frame your face, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip. "I'm so far beyond happy I don't think there's a word for it. You're everything, you know that? You and Lily are my whole world."

"Dick," you breathed, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring years and years of love and devotion into it until you were dizzy.

"Mama! Daddy! Watch me!" Lily's voice broke through, and you pulled apart, both turning to watch her hang upside down from the monkey bars.

"Very impressive, baby!" you called, and Dick whistled his approval.

"She gets that from me," he said proudly.

"The showing off or the acrobatics?" Your eyebrows raised, accompanied by a wink and a smile.

"Both." He grinned proudly at that. "Come on, I'll push her on the swings. You can sit and look beautiful."

"I can push my own daughter on the swings."

"I know you can. You can do anything." His hand squeezed yours. "But you're growing a whole human, so let me take care of you both. Please?"

The please got you, the way it always did. You let him lead you to the bench near the swings, settling down with a sigh you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Pregnancy was easier the second time in some ways, harder in others, but having Dick by your side made everything better.

You watched him push Lily, his laughter mixing with hers as she demanded "higher, Daddy, higher!" He obliged, of course, because Dick Grayson had never been able to deny his girls anything. The sun caught in his dark hair that was greying at the roots, and his smile was bright and unguarded, and your chest ached with how much you loved him.

Later, after the park, after lunch, after Lily had been coaxed into a nap with promises of ice cream later, you found yourself in Dick's arms on the couch. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, and you were playing with his hair, and everything was perfect and quiet and right.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, voice soft.

"For what?"

"This. All of this." He shifted to look at you, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "I know I'm not always here," he continued. "I know some nights I come home late, or bruised, or..."

You pressed your fingers to his lips, stopping him. "You're here now. You're here every morning and every moment you can be. You're an amazing husband and an incredible father. I knew who I was marrying, and I love every part of you." You smiled at him, your head tilted to rest on your arm. You meant every word, truly, and you knew he did too.

"Plus, it's not like you're out late doing bullshit, you're out late being a literal superhero, vigilantes.. whatever you wanna call it." You couldn't help the teasing smile that came to your lips with that.

His eyes shimmered, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "How did I get so lucky?"

"I ask myself the same thing." You smiled, cupping his cheek. "Though I think it might have something to do with you being charming and handsome and making me laugh even when I want to strangle you."

"I am pretty charming," he agreed, and you laughed, the sound making him grin. "And handsome. Don't forget handsome."

"Impossible to forget." You kissed him, slow and sweet. "You're also so humble."

"My best quality." He pulled you closer, until you were practically in his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you. "I love you. So much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.

Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.

“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.

It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.

You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”

She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.

You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.

Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.

You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.

The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.

“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.

He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.

You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.

But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.

You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?

The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.

“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.

You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.

“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”

He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.

“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”

You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.

“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”

“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.

“Dinner’s halfway done—”

Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.

His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”

The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.

You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.

He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.

“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”

Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”

Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”

Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”

You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.

You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.

Your legs felt heavier than they should have.

Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.

And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.

Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.

And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.

A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.

*****

Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.

The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.

This should be easy.

The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”

The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.

“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”

“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.

He given her a look. “You are eight.”

“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”

He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.

“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”

She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”

He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”

“But it says get ten,” she insisted.

He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”

Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”

He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.

“What the heck is this?” he muttered.

She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”

Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”

He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.

“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.

She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”

The pan given a warning hiss.

He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.

The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.

“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.

She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.

Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”

“Right. Math.”

He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”

“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.

Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”

“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”

She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”

“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.

Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”

Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”

He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”

She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”

He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”

He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.

The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.

“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”

She pouted.

He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.

He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.

And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.

His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.

She waited for him.

He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.

Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.

He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.

*****

Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.

He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.

“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”

He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.

She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.

He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.

“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.

She grinned at him like he was hilarious.

By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.

He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.

His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

She tapped her own cheek.

He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”

Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.

He snorted softly.

Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.

Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.

“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

He looked at the hair tie and sighed.

“How hard could it be?” he muttered.

Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.

The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.

“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.

“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.

She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.

When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.

The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.

He paused with his hands braced on the counter.

This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.

He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.

“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.

Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.

*****

The bedroom had been dark for hours.

You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.

The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.

You stirred anyway.

Your body knew when he was near.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.

The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”

“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.

You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”

He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.

“How’s it now?” he asked.

“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”

He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back. 

“The girls okay?” you asked.

“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”

There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.

“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”

You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”

Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.

You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”

He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.

“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.

“It’s airtight.”

His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.

“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.

“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.

“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.

“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”

His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.

“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”

Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.

“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”

You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.

But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love. 

Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.

The migraine faded further into the background.

After a while so did the guilt.

In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.

And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.

Bruce knocked on Dick’s door with the practiced patience of a man who hadn't already received twenty-seven texts from Dick that morning. He wore his fluffy white robe as his doctors coat, and a black surgical mask on his face.  Martha stood beside him, doctor kit rolling behind her, doctors coat buttoned to the top, mask slightly askew, and play clipboard clutched with Hello Kitty paper close to her chest.

“Come in,” Dick croaked, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.

He was a mess. Hair everywhere, wrapped in two blankets, a cold pack sliding down his forehead. One arm hung dramatically over the side of the bed.

Martha gasped. “Oh no! He’s very sick, Daddy.”

Bruce nodded gravely. “Critical condition.”

Dick peeked an eye open. “Is that my favorite doctor?”

Martha marched forward. “Yes! Doctor Martha Wayne. And this is Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

Dick grinned weakly. “You brought backup. Good. I wasn’t sure I’d make it.”

Bruce took out his phone and dialed your number. He put it on speaker.

“Hey, Doctor Wayne,” your voice came through the line, cheerful and steady. “How’s the patient?”

“Hi, Mama!” Martha chirped. “He’s very hot and sweaty,” Martha reported, pressing her toy thermometer to Dick’s forehead. “And his hair’s going crazy. That means fever.”

Bruce added, deadpan: “Fever of one hundred and… dramatic.”

Dick stuck his tongue out at Bruce and readjusted his ice pack.

You chuckled. “Understood. Doctor Martha, what do you think he needs?”

“Soup, juice, and snuggles,” she said decisively.

“Prescription approved,” you said. “Pharmacy will prepare chicken noodle and vegetable juice. Nurse Bruce Daddy, make sure he doesn’t leave bed.”

“Copy that,” Bruce said.

Dick pouted. "I don't like vegetable juice!"

You said a firm "Too bad." and hung up the phone.

"Who made her the boss?”

Bruce tucked one of the blanket around him, “Her doctorate.”

Martha peeled a sparkly unicorn sticker from her kit and stuck it carefully on Dick’s hand.

“There. That’ll make you brave. Because uniforms are brave."

Dick smiled, small and soft. “Already working, Doc.”

As they stepped out, Bruce texted you:

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Dick is stable. Diagnosis: severe silliness, light fever, 80% improvement after sticker treatment.

Your reply came quick.

From : "My Home ❤️": Pharmacy delivery driver (Alfred) will deliver chicken noodle soup in 20 minutes. Next patient.

Bruce glanced down the hall where the rest of the manor waited in various stages of misery. He sighed, adjusting the toy stethoscope hanging from his neck.

“Come on, Doctor. We’ve got a long day ahead.”

Martha grinned, tugging his hand. “Let’s save more people, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

The next door was half-closed, a low voice grumbling from inside.

“Come in if you dare,” Jason muttered, muffled by a pillow.

Martha didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open, tiny doctor coat flapping dramatically. “Doctor Martha Wayne, reporting for duty!”

Jason groaned. “Oh no, they sent the tiny one.”

Bruce followed her in, phone in hand, expression neutral. “Nurse Bruce Daddy assisting.”

Jason peered up from his blanket cocoon. “You’re kidding me.”

Bruce started typing, voice flat. “No, but I will be documenting your symptoms for [Name].”

Marta climbed onto the edge of the bed, stethoscope around her neck, eyes sharp with professional focus. “How are you feeling, big brother Jay?”

He coughed once, wet, deep, and chesty. “Fine.”

She gasped. “Ew! That cough is not fine!” She pressed the plastic stethoscope against his chest, listening intently to absolutely nothing. “Hmm. Your heartbeat sounds… spicy.”

Jason squinted. “Spicy?”

“That means you’ve been eating too many chili dogs,” she said with great authority.

Jason's eyes narrowed at his sister. "Who told you!?"

Bruce called your phone immediately.

"Status report," you asked with a tone too playful to be completely stern.

"Doctor reports patient has "spicy heartbeat.” Likely due to diet of street food and vengeance," Bruce reported.

"Incorrect," Jason weakly pointed at a shaky finger at Bruce. "Street food and spite. Vengeance is your thing."

You let out an amused huff on the other line. "Understood. Prescription: extra-large super green smoothie and no chili dogs until he gets better."

Jason sat up. “Wait, no chili dogs? Don't I need, like, protein or something?"

Unfortunately for Jason, you already hung up before you could listen to his objections.

Martha scribbled on her clipboard, tongue poking out as she wrote. “What Mama says goes.”

Jason sighed, slumping back. “You're brutal like mama.”

Martha patted his arm. “That’s because I care.” She reached into her kit and produced a bright red sticker shaped like a lightning bolt. “You’re strong like Flash. You’ll feel better soon.”

Jason looked at it for a long moment before peeling it carefully off and sticking it on his bedside table lamp. “Thanks sis.”

As they left, Bruce sent one last text:

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient grumpy but compliant. Sticker therapy successful. Moral high.

From: "My Home ❤️": Sounds like you . Next.

Martha tugged Bruce’s hand toward the next hallway. “Come on, Nurse Bruce Daddy! We still have a lot of sickies to fix!”

Bruce smirked faintly. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

The door to Tim’s room was cracked open, the faint glow of a laptop screen flickering inside. Bruce sighed before even knocking. “He’s working,” he muttered.

Martha frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting!”

She pushed the door open and marched straight in, the toy stethoscope bouncing against her chest. “Patient Timmy!” she announced. “You are not allowed to do science when you’re sick!”

Tim turned in his desk chair, coffee mug in his hand, dark circles practically engraved under his eyes. “It’s not science, it’s—”

“Work,” Bruce finished sternly. “Is that coffee!?”

Martha let out a high pitched gasp. "I'm telling Mommy!"

Tim slumped. “Traitor!”

"Get him to bed Nurse Bruce Daddy!"

Bruce didn't hesitate. He rushed towards Tim, but Tim was stubborn. He jumped out of his chair and used it as a shield. "Cut it out Bruce! I'm fine!"

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Bruce pulled the chair away from Tim and tossed it to the side.

Tim lunged towards his bed and clumsily wrapped his duvet around his shoulders. "I'm in bed! I'm in bed! Layoff Nurse Terminator!"

Bruce gave a stern nod and went to pick up Tim's chair. Meanwhile Martha climbed into Tim's bed, wooden tongue depressor in her hand. "Say ahh Timmy."

"Okay, just not too far Martha. I almost threw up last time."

"Okay."

Tim opened his mouth, letting Martha slowly and carefully press his tongue down with the depressor. Tim was patient as she examined the inside of his mouth for…something.

Martha nodded like she suddenly got all the answers she needed. She dropped the depressor on Tim's bed and started scribbling on her clipboard.

Tim leaned over to see what she was writing. "Is it serious doctor?"

Martha didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Yes. Yucky breath and tired eyes.”

Tim groaned into his blanket. “Ruthless.”

Bruce thumbed his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Timmy diagnosed with ‘yucky breath and tired eyes.’

The reply came fast.

From: "My Home ❤️": Italian meatball soup, lots of water, and mint mouthwash before anyone else suffers.

Tim pulled the duvet higher over his head. “Tell Mom I’m not talking to her anymore.”

Martha smiled proudly, setting a panda sticker on his nightstand. “He’s getting better already.”

Cass’s door was closed, soft music humming from a speaker on the other side. She sat cross-legged on her bed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes closed as she breathed slowly through a sore throat because her stuffed up nose wouldn't allow something as silly as breathing.

Martha peeked in, whispering, “We have to be quiet, Nurse Bruce Daddy. She’s sleeping sitting up.”

Cass’s lips curved into a small smile. “Not sleeping,” she rasped gently.

Martha crept closer. “Hi, Cass. I’m Doctor Martha. You don’t feel good?”

Cass shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “No I don't Doctor Martha. Can you help me?”

Martha pulled out her trusty clip board. "What are your symptoms?"

"Sore throat. Stuffy nose. And I'm really tired."

Bruce stayed by the doorway, pulling out his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️":  Patient Cassandra reports fatigue, sinus congestion, and sore throat. Calm and cooperative.

The reply came a moment later.

From: "My Home ❤️": Apple cinnamon oatmeal with honey. Tell Doctor Martha to be extra gentle with her big sister.

Martha reached into her kit, placing a toy thermometer against Cass’s cheek. “Hmm,” she murmured. “You’ve got the sleepies. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Cass watched her little sister with patient amusement. “Sleepies, huh?”

“Yup. Doctor’s orders — oatmeal, snuggles, and a nap.” Martha opened her case and pulled out a small stuffed axolotl and gave it to Cass. Next she peeled a gold star sticker from her clipboard and pressed it gently to Cass’s shoulder. “For being the quietest patient ever.”

Cass signed thank you, her movement small and soft. Martha brightened and awkwardly mirrored the sign back, making Cass’s eyes glimmer with pure affection.

Bruce sent one last text before pocketing his phone.

To: "My Home ❤️": Stuffy deployed. Sticker therapy successful. Patient Cass resting.

From: "My Home ❤️": Good job! Previous patients received food and medicine. I eagerly await another update.

Cass reached over to squeeze Martha’s tiny hand. “Good doctor,” she whispered.

Bruce knelt beside her and whispered, “You’re four for four, Doctor. Who’s next?”

Martha’s eyes lit up. “Steph! She’s a silly patient. We have to hurry!”

Martha knocked three times before kicking open the door. “Doctor Martha Wayne!” she announced grandly. “House call!”

Steph, bundled up in a mountain of purple blankets, peeked over the top with mock fear. “Oh no, the doctor’s here! Everyone hide the candy!”

Bruce followed her in, phone already out with you on the other line. “Patient appears conscious and sarcastic.”

“Symptom confirmed,” you said seriously, the sound of a knife cutting something on the other line.

Steph laughed, voice hoarse but light. “You’re getting good at this, kiddo.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come on, Doc. You better check my vitals before I die of boredom.”

Martha climbed up, pulling out her toy stethoscope and placing it on Stephs back. “Okay. Deep breaths.”

Steph exaggerated it, huffing like she was blowing up a balloon. Martha nodded gravely and tapped her pen. “Diagnosis: funny lungs.”

You paused your food cutting. "So patient Stephanie exhibits excessive humor and mild congestion. Got it. Prescription: chicken and dumplings, orange juice."

Bruce dipped his chin once in acknowledgment. "Better add one less joke per minute to her prescription."

Steph blew a raspberry at Bruce. “You and [Name] are no fun.”

Martha gasped. “You can’t talk back to the pharmacy!”

Bruce added, “That’s an automatic fine.”

Steph chuckled, her laugh turning into a cough. Martha instantly reached for her toy thermometer and pressed it to Steph’s forehead. “You’re hot!” she blurted, eyes wide.

Steph smirked. “Thanks, I know.”

Martha blinked, confused. “No, I mean your head! You have a fever!”

Steph’s laughter broke into another cough, and Martha’s little hand flew to her back, rubbing in small circles. “Careful! You’re gonna choke on your funny!”

Bruce spoke into his phone. "Patient laughing through cough. Doctor applied small-hand comfort technique."

A kitchen timer rings mid-call. "Ah, the next round of food is done. Tell Doctor Martha she’s doing wonderfully. And remind Steph to drink her water."

Steph retreated back into her cocoon, only her sweaty forehead visible. "Yes ma'am."

Martha tore off a shiny purple cat sticker and stuck it right on Steph’s forehead. “For bravery and too many jokes.”

Steph gave her a weak salute through her blankets. “Best doctor I’ve ever had.”

Martha giggled and hopped off the bed. “Next patient, Nurse Bruce Daddy!”

"Yes Doctor Martha."

Martha didn’t even knock this time. She flung Duke’s door open like a superhero making an entrance. “Doctor Martha Wayne! And Nurse Bruce Daddy!”

Duke sat in the middle of his bed, oversized hoodie on, and a box of tissues balanced on his lap. “Wow, I got the A-team,” he said, voice stuffy but amused.

“You sure did,” Bruce replied, tone flat but eyes warm. “Let's get to work doctor.”

Martha squinted, studying Duke like a detective at a crime scene. “You sound funny.”

“Because my nose is broken,” Duke said with a sniff.

Martha gasped. “You broke your nose!?”

Duke chuckled. “I mean it’s stuffy.”

“Ohhh.” Martha nodded sagely and pulled a toy otoscope from her kit. “Hold still. Doctor Martha will fix it.”

Duke leaned forward obediently while she shined her little plastic light up his nose. “Hmm,” she hummed, dead serious. “Too much nastiness in there.”

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke experiencing nasal congestion. Doctor’s official diagnosis: ‘too much nastiness.’

Duke waved to Bruce to catch his attention. "Tell [Name] my head is pounding from the congestion."

Bruce did what he was asked, and got a text from you minutes later.

To: "My Home ❤️": Administer Pedialyte with emergency congestion and headache medicine set for immediate Alfred delivery. And tell our doctor she’s brilliant.

Martha beamed as Bruce read the text aloud. “See? Mommy thinks I’m smart!”

Duke gently pat Martha's head. “I’d trust you with my life, Doc.”

She reached into her kit and handed him a bright yellow sticker shaped like the sun. “For being the sunshine brother.”

He smiled, pressing it to his hoodie. “Best sticker ever.”

Bruce typed one more note.

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke stable, morale high. Sunshine sticker issued.

Duke raised an eyebrow. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Doctor’s orders. And I wanted to make sure everyone's okay.”

Duke looked down at his hands, trying to use his hood to hide his bashful smile. "Thanks Bruce. I appreciate that."

Martha clapped her hands together. “Only one left!”

Bruce glanced down the hall toward the last closed door. “Damian.”

Martha nodded with determination. “He’s the grumpiest patient of all. We have to be brave, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”

Bruce sighed, resigned. “Lead on, Doctor.”

The door to Damian’s room was shut tight, a hand-written note taped to it: DO NOT ENTER.

Martha squinted at it. “He’s scared,” she said defiantly.

Bruce deadpanned, “That’s one interpretation.”

She knocked anyway. “Doctor Martha Wayne! Open up! I have to tell mommy you're sick and give you medicine!”

A muffled voice shot back, sharp as a blade: “Leave the cure by the door. I require no assistance.”

Martha stomped her foot. “He’s refusing treatment!”

Bruce sighed. “He’s refusing everything.”

She turned the handle and pushed the door open before he could stop her.

Damian stood near his desk, arms crossed, sword propped within reach—because of course it was. Titus lay nearby, ears back like he’d already accepted defeat. Damian’s voice was hoarse, his nose red, but his posture screamed battle-ready.

“I’m fine,” he said curtly.

“You’re sniffly,” Martha countered, marching right up to him with her toy thermometer in her right hand, and her toy otoscope in her left.

“That’s not a medical term.”

“You're not a doctor! You don't know!”

To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian still in denial. Sword present. Proceeding with caution.

A second later:

From: "My Home ❤️":  Be careful. Apply stubbornness-countermeasures. Preparing emergency grilled cheese and tomato soup. Administer stealth affection STAT!

“Sit,” Martha ordered, pointing at his bed.

Damian scoffed. “You are not qualified to give orders.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “She has more medical experience than you do, son.”

“Because I trained with assassins, not—” Damian let out a hard sneeze, knocking the wind out of him so hard that he went into a coughing fit.

Martha pointed a finger at her brother dramatically. “Evidence! You are sick!”

He scowled. “That was dust.”

“There’s no dust in my patient rooms,” she said firmly, stepping closer to him and holding out her plastic thermometer. “Hold still!”

Damian dodged left. “I will not.”

She huffed, trying again. “Hold still or I’ll tell Mommy!”

Bruce said slowly, “That’s an effective strategy.”

Damian froze mid-step. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Martha tightened her grip on her thermometer. "Yes. I. Would."

Bruce jumped towards Damian, embracing the boy in a tight bear hug. "Gotcha."

Damian wiggled is shoulders and kicked his feet, but his congestion left him weak and breathless. He gave up his fight almost as soon as he started. He dangled helplessly as Martha stared up at her helpless brother.

Damian looked back at her, his expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "This isn't care! This is tyranny!”

She scribbled on her clipboard. “Diagnosis: very dramatic. Needs puppy snuggles.”

Damian sighed heavily. “Fine. Administer whatever treatment you deem necessary. Quickly.”

Bruce released his hold. When Damian silently climbed into bed, Bruce typed one last note:

To: "My Home ❤️":  Patient Damian finally compliant. Diagnosis: dramatic fever and acute denial.

From: "My Home ❤️":  Good work. I knew I could count on you.

Martha beamed, placing a tiny dinosaur sticker on his wrist. “For being brave and only a little grumpy.”

Damian studied it like it was radioactive, then muttered, “Tch. It’s acceptable.”

Titus barked once, tail thumping on the wood floor.

Bruce crouched beside his daughter. “That’s all the patients, Doctor.”

Martha jumped, proud smile still in place. “We did it.”

“You did,” Bruce said softly, kissing the top of her head. “Now let’s report back to the pharmacy. And tell mommy the good news."

For the first time all day, you weren’t juggling medicine bottles, boiling pots, or a buzzing phone. You sat curled up on the living room couch, a thick blanket on your lap, tea steaming between your hands, firelight flickering against the walls.

Alfred had taken care of the final deliveries himself — insisting that Doctor Martha’s patients deserved proper presentation. He’d left the soup trays and medicine bottles neatly arranged on a rolling cart and disappeared down the hall like the guardian of a very tired hospital ward.

A few minutes later, the familiar tread of heavy steps echoed across the floor. You looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway — hoodie rumpled, hair even more of a mess, and your daughter fast asleep on his shoulder. Her tiny doctor’s coat was crooked, her mask off, and her stethoscope and clipboard securely in Bruce's free hand.

“She insisted on checking Alfred one more time, even though he wasn't sick,” Bruce murmured, voice low so she wouldn’t wake. “Declared him fully cured.”

You smiled. “And what about you, Nurse Bruce Daddy?”

His mouth curved faintly. “Completely healthy.”

“Good,” you said softly, patting the couch beside you. “Because I’m prescribing rest, cuddles, and cookies.”

He set Martha gently in your lap, her tiny hands instantly finding you. “Mission complete,” she mumbled into your shoulder, half-dreaming. “All better.”

You gently kissed her head, your heart full of love and content. “Best doctor in Gotham.”

Bruce’s gaze softened. “No arguments here.” He carefully sat close to you. Allowing you to smoothly cuddle into his side.

You leaned into him as the fire cracked softly, the manor finally still — every tick of the clock a small, steady heartbeat of peace.

“Clinic’s closed for the night,” you murmured.