#wasian reader

Bruce is—despite you and your siblings aging him several decades with each shenanigan or injury—always proud to say who his children have grown up to be. The once small sidekicks that have turned into your own amazing vigilantes and heroes or are on the way to it. He would not trade it for anything. He does, though, occasionally miss the days when you were all small. When he could carry you up to bed after a late patrol, or patch one of you up without hearing embarrassed grumbling. Now, he most often receives argument and protest each time he patches one of you up. From Dick? Insistence that he does not need help. From Cass? A quiet assurance that she is fine, though she is more likely to allow the help. Bruce nearly had to sedate a bleeding out Jason when the crime lord insisted he could stitch a deep gash in his side on his own. The list goes on, and each story added reminds Bruce that his kids no longer need him for every scraped knee or monster in the closet. That’s what makes tonight special; it’s one of the few nights that shows that his kids still need him. That his life is somehow more than just fighting in the dark and pretending to be a himbo during the day. Tonight has been a long and draining one—more draining than usual for a Gotham vigilante. A nearly full-team mission had been planned and sprung on Black Mask and his constituents. The mission had been meant to stop an arms deal. Long story short, the weapon was on its way to the Justice League for safe keeping and the bats have all been patched up. Everyone has been changed out of their costumes and into more comfortable clothes for a short time now. Most of your siblings are on their way to their respective apartments, safe houses, or bedrooms in the manor. The only people left in the batcave were you, Bruce, and Tim. The clacking of the keyboard echoed faintly through the cave as Tim logged his portion of the mission report. Bruce had allowed a small exception to this mission that everyone could fill out their reports in the morning due to how straining it had been, but Tim was rarely one to let work go undone. The young man had likely just been waiting for the pain meds to kick in anyway. Bruce, on the other hand, is putting up the last of his gear. Having already finished his report and gotten patched up, he found no reason not to put his things in order. The suit and gear are easiest to account for and have Alfred mend when it was all in the right place, and he certainly does not want to get an earful from the old butler in the morning. What breaks the nearly peaceful ambience of the cave is the sound of you beginning to sharpen one of your blades. Your body feels heavy with sleep and injury, but you feel restless. Like you’re still waiting for another wave of battle.

The sound draws your father’s familiar gaze. You can feel his eyes on you, but you are too tired to particularly care. Bruce can see the tension and exhaustion in your movements. How you stall before each careful swipe of the blade over its expensive whetstone. How your eye lids seem reluctant to open each time you blink. How you don’t bother trying to shake the water off your bangles—which you usually do when they got wet—after putting more water on the whetstone. Right now, Bruce did not see a fearsome vigilante. He saw a worn-out teenager who needed to be sent to bed. Bruce cleared his throat in attempt to get your attention, but it flies over your head. He watched you for a moment longer. How your grip on the dagger’s hilt grows uneven. How your head occasionally bobs as you try not to fall asleep where you are working. A young man needs his sleep, especially one with both a night and day life such as yourself. Bruce calls your name in his usual deep cadence. When he’s sure he has at least half your attention, he continues, “You should go to bed.” “I’m busy,” you matter to him. He can hear how tired you are in your voice, though it’s not as if it is not evident in itself. “You can work on the dagger tomorrow”, Bruce chides as he grows perturbed. Most—if not all—of his children are like this, yet it never gets less worrying. “I’m”, you are cut off by a yawn, “fine, B.” You had tried to sound stubborn, but Bruce right now merely sees his dead tired son pushing his body past his breaking point. The older vigilante sighs as he walks over to you, bending at the knee to kneel and gently take the dagger from your hands. He sheaths it tentatively like it is an extension of you; precious. Something worth handling with care. It is easy for him to evade your attempts at grabbing the weapon back; your reaction time is dulled thanks to how tired you are. “You can finish this tomorrow, (y/n),” Bruce said in a stern yet gentle tone that’s been largely forgotten since you and the rest of your siblings have gotten older. “After school,” he adds to make sure you don’t get any ‘bright’ ideas. “Ridiculous,” you say under your breath with a few other choice words. Bruce only shakes his head while pocketing your dagger. He decides he can put it away once he gets you to bed. You are his priority at the moment; the blade can come after.

He picks you up like he once would have when you were a child. He’s careful of any bandage is wrapping your tired body, making sure not to aggravate or reopen any of your injuries. It’s something he doesn’t much get to get to do anymore, it’s really only for occasions when his children are horribly wounded or devastatingly tired. He handles you with a gentleness that most would not assume the Bat is capable of at first glance. The quiet clash of glass and gold on glass and gold echoes off the cave walls as the movement makes your bangles shift here and there. It was soft, nothing so remarkable that Tim would be distracted from his typing. The family is pleasantly used to it, one of the many familiar sounds that often fills the manor and cave with warmth. “Seriously, B?”, you grumble the question. Despite it, you let him carry you. You often play tough like your siblings, but this is one of the few times where affection isn’t awkward. “You can work on it tomorrow, chum.” “I can work on it now.” It’s a weak argument on your part, you both know it. “You were practically falling asleep with that dagger in your hand. You can work on it tomorrow,” Bruce finally shut you down while gingerly carrying you towards the trapdoor that leads to his study. Your father receives a defeated, albeit disgruntled, huff from you. You don’t have the energy to argue. The mission was long and hard, and school still awaits you in the morning.

The walk to your room is quiet, save for the faint sounds coming from the jewelry on your wrists. The manor is asleep. The animals are in the barn or Damian’s bedroom. Alfred’s retired to his bedroom for the night. The halls are dark with only the dim moonlight shining through the windows to cast elegant light on the walls and off expensive display peaces. It’s peaceful. “Are those staying on?”, your father breaks the illusion of silence. Your half closed eyes glimpse up at him in question. He then offered, “or will I be taking off the bangles?” “Leave them,” you mumbled. The gold bangles would be no issue to you; Bruce only buys the best, so they won’t be breaking or snagging on your sheets. Your glass bangles were strong too, made from tempered glass. You sleep in them most nights anyway. Bruce hums in acknowledgment. He knows you’re about to fall asleep, and he savers the fact that you are not acting tough in the moment like you so often do. When he gets to your room, Bruce shifts you gingerly. Preciously. Like you are made of glass. He doesn’t want to snap you out of your sleepy daze—Bruce doubts you’ll be willing to let go of your earlier task of sharpening the dagger if you get rejuvenated any. When you’re situated again, he opens the fine wooden door to your room. The room is dim. The only light is coming from a small lamp you keep on in case of nights like these, and the glimpses of moonlight that sneak through the curtains. Everything in it is so, very you. From the decorations you’ve collected throughout the years, to the jewelry sitting on an organizer rack. Bruce makes a mental note to order more chest tape for you when he sees the empty box in your trashcan. Just as carefully as before, Bruce shifts you in his arms. This time, though, your father is shifting you to lay you in your bed. When he’s sure you’re comfortable and none of your injuries have been agitated, Bruce smooths out your hair and pulls the blanket over you. You’re asleep before he fully withdraws from the room. He takes a moment to watch you before closing the door on his way out. You are all still his children, no matter how grown you get. You may be nearing the end of high school, but you still need your dad. There’s still time before you leave his nest.