For Dick, it was always just hush. When Dick sobbed in my arms, heart broken and agonized, I always hushed him. "Hush little Dickie bird, it'll be ok. Everything's gonna be just fine." I assured him that whatever it was, it would all be resolved for the better, but it was the word hush that seemed to soothe him the most.
I didn't really understand why, but Alfred later speculated that it was simply "our word" and he reacted to it accordingly. It was an assurance that it was indeed me here to cuddle him and hold him and wipe away his tears. It was an assertion that he was, to me, the most important thing that ever was and that more than anything else, I loved him.
We would go to my big chair in front of the fireplace, his favorite spot to be held, and quietly talk through things. I would comb my fingers through his hair for the longest time while he leaned against me, my chest and abs as much a pillow to him as any feather stuffed thing.
He would speak quietly about everything that was going on with him, every once in a while snuggling his head into me and prompting me to draw him closer. Sometimes, when he had cried himself out, he would fall asleep and I would sit there very quietly and hold him tight until he woke up. Being the naturally bouncy creature that he was, Dick got over things fairly easily and, as a result, would usually be ready to play again after he had napped.
But, even after he had outgrown the snuggling and my lap, hush was his word and, as an adult, when he was getting worked up about something or he was upset, I would whisper softly to him "Hush" and he would smile and calm enough to run through his problem slowly. I asked him once why, but he simply shrugged. "I don't know, it's just the way things are." And I accepted that because he did.
Jason needed something singularly more concrete. When Jason cried, which wasn't often, he liked to be snuggled in my bed. Something about the sheets and blankets provided for him a kind of security. Having been a street kid and therefore homeless, the bed was a sanctuary, a symbol for home.
I would lead him, carrying him sometimes, while he sobbed, to my room. Then, I would lie down and pull him up close to me, whispering to him softly as he sobbed against my chest, "I'm here sweet Jason, I'm here. I'll never let you go, I promise. I'm here, you're safe."
For Jason, simply the assurance I was there and on his side soothed him. He didn't even have to talk about his problems sometimes. Whatever troubled him was resolved beneath my sheets with my solemn pledge that I was indeed present and that I would be on his side until the stars fell from the sky.
He wanted to be guaranteed his safety, since on the streets; he had never been assured of such. I told him he was safe, he was here, I was here and that he belonged here and belonged to me. He wanted to know he belonged, where he was and to me, like a small dog wants an owner. This was his place, this was where he was meant to be and he wanted to be secure in that knowledge.
He especially loved it when I called him sweet, or good. He desperately needed assurance of his own sanctity, as all he had been able to boast of in his youth was a plethora of insults ranging from stupid, to useless, to disgusting. He wanted to know that, to me at least, he was good, that I saw past the tough exterior to the tiny heart beneath that wanted to know it was sweet. I was only too happy to oblige. After all, everything I said was true.
When he was distressed or even if he wasn't, I would whisper it to him. "Good job sweet Jason, you're a good boy." He would give me the Cheshire grin that always made me burst with adoration for him and make some joke about his wickedness. I never believed him, he was good to me and he knew it. He knew he was dearly loved.
Tim, in all things, was both complex and simple at the same time. He cried probably more often than he ever let me see, but he was uncomfortable with coming to me. He had never had anyone to come to when he was young and, as a result, he was wary of how I would react.
When I managed to track him down or get him to admit to being upset, I would do my best to comfort him. After I figured out something was wrong, which was the hardest part, quieting him was easy, but sometimes, I didn't want to quiet him. He needed a chance to cry and a shoulder to do it on. So, since his father could not fulfill that need, I would.
When I found him crying, I would scoop him up because he liked best to be rocked. He wanted me to hold him while I stood, swaying my hips back and forth in a lulling motion, treating him almost like he was a baby. There was nothing he loved more than being treated as if he were still two rather than twelve.
I wasn't sure why he had this proclivity for being mollycoddled and it didn't usually manifest itself but when he was upset. All other times, he acted as any normal twelve year old would, albeit, a little more guarded then the usual child of his age. Perhaps it stemmed from having lost his mother at such a young age. He had felt the most secure when he was small.
If I were at the manor, I would get a blanket and wrap him up in it tightly. Then, I would hold him to my shoulder and rock him in silence, my hand on his back or head while the other held him up. I knew how much my touch soothed him.
And he would nuzzle into me and sob quietly. Once he started, it wasn't hard for him to continue. He would hold everything back until the last possible second, but he could not stem the flow until it had run its course once it had started. When he began to quiet, I would whisper softly to him, "I love you."
That was what he wanted to hear more than anything else, that he was loved. For some reason, his painfully low self-esteem was elevated by those simple three words. He was loved, so he had worth. Back and forth I would rock, whispering how much I loved him and it would be as if all the problems evaporated. My love was stronger that any foe he needed to fight.
As he got older, he grew out of the need to be held, though his affinity for blankets never waned, and the words "I love you" softly whispered, often sufficed, though he would never pass up a chance to quietly press himself to me, pushing his head to my shoulder or chest while I wrapped my arms around him. That remained constant, even as, through those years, my world shifted.
Damian shunned tears. He never cried, or rarely did. His mother had seemingly beaten the tears right out of him, or, at the very least, denied his right to having them. But, he did get upset and when this occurred, he would lie quietly on his stomach somewhere in the house, gazing off into the distance. He would try to hide it somewhat, but he wasn't all that hard to read in the end.
I would come and sit next to him, but I wouldn't talk. If he looked at me, I wouldn't meet his gaze. I would sit down as if I didn't even notice he was there. Then, we would remain silently next to each other for a moment before, seemingly nonchalantly, I would reach out and start to rub his back. He would stiffen at first contact and then just go limp, like a rag doll.
It was Dick that first perfected this technique and found out my son's proclivity for backrubs. The skin on Damian's back and the nerve endings in his spine were hypersensitive because they had been replaced, so, nothing felt better to him than to have his back rubbed. Gradually, he would start to climb onto my lap until his head rested on one of my arms and I rubbed him with my other.
Then, sometimes I would feel my sleeves or my chest wet with the tears he desperately tried to hide. I didn't try to quiet him because, like Tim, he needed to know it was ok for him to cry. The tears would come in short bursts and usually last much longer than the crying any of the others did since they came out so sparingly.
He would usually start to speak after that, having been softened up by the backrub and allowed to get out most of his emotion, carried on his salty tears. I would listen quietly and not speak until the very end.
Then, I would offer advice where I could and if I couldn't, I would be silent. And then, I'd start to whisper. "Don't worry Damian, I'll protect you." And, I'd lift him up so that he was perched on my arm and, still rubbing his back, promise him that I'd guard him.
He felt safe in my arms and would submit to being consoled if no one else was around. Not even Dick was permitted to remain. All Damian really wanted was to be protected, from his grandfather, his mother, himself, and I promised him I would. He was so afraid that one day, he would be swept away by his wayward relatives or worse, be lost in himself.
He didn't even really know who he was and where he fit in to my world, a world he barely understood. For that, I felt for him and his insecurities made me love him all the more. I promised him I would always keep him safe and in that, I assured him he had a place here, that he was wanted and that he was loved.