Alfred placed the whole, 20-pound turkey crammed with stuffing at the center of the dining table as the focal point of the Bat Family dinner, mostly for Bruce. The former Dark Knight was banned from consuming red meats, instead receiving most of his daily value of iron through raw spinach. Bruce grumbled as he drowned the emerald leaves in red wine vinaigrette and piled them into his mouth. Bruce always maintained his will to live, even during the trying times of his rivalry with Superman, but after all of the high mountains of romaine, arugula, red lettuce, and spinach, he had definitely lost it.
"Is that really all for us, Alfred?" Tim asked, eyes glittering from all the choices Alfred had crafted—garlic mashed potatoes drenched in gravy, and blood red fra diavolo, and fried pork belly dressed in honey and rosemary, and grilled lamb kebabs fragrant with apple wood chip smoke, and freshly-baked butter rolls still warm from the oven. There was more, much, much more, but Bruce couldn't look. As he side-eyed the stack of dry rub ribs, he caught Alfred's "I swear to God, Master Wayne, you touch those, and I'll be feeding you tofu and small boned fish for as long as I live" looks, Bruce sat defeated as Damian happily butchered the turkey and served the hacked pieces to his father.
The rest of the Bat Family (plus Conner) enjoyed the feast, stuffing themselves full of the cuisine most of them missed dearly—aside from Bruce's awkward pats on the back and the incredibly rare hug, Alfred's cooking was what made Wayne Manor home. Honestly, no one gave a shit about the crystal chandeliers, or the one-of-a-kind, handcrafted furniture, or even the Bat Cave. What each former (and current) sidekick loved most was the love and attention Alfred had always given the food at Wayne Manor, which was the way Alfred had all shown them his love. On the worst of nights, when Bruce would go back to his study and sulk after a loss or an incredibly disturbing revelation, Alfred would sneak into their rooms with soft, gooey chocolate chip cookies and a glass of warm milk, sitting on the bed and listening to the kids silently stifle their sobs from Bruce's sharp ears.
When Alfred wheeled out the bread pudding and key lime pie and croissant donuts filled with vanilla bean whipped cream, the kids exclaimed "goodness, Alfred!", "you shouldn't have", or "Oh God, I'm already the mother of twin food babies". But they all thanked Alfred and graciously ate their desserts while Bruce stood up and walked away to his study.
The kids were all right. Well, Tim had named himself after a burger joint, and Jason probably needed therapy, but they all sat around the table to tell stories, even making Conner feel as if he had always been one of them. Barbara recounted her adventures fighting crime alongside her father, who had recently taken over the identity of Batman, Jason mercilessly punched Dick in the balls (metaphorically) about everything, and Cassandra, Tim, and Damian listened to all of Conner's exploits in Juárez. They were a family, arguably the most loving in the Justice League, and it brought tears to Bruce's eyes. Or the tears were from the desserts he couldn't have. Honestly, he couldn't tell.
"You useless sack of shit. First, you can't pick an actual brain to run your company, and now you can't even tell your kids to get their acts together and fight crime as a team!"
Bruce squinted and saw a dark, busty silhouette sitting on his white oak desk. Bruce turned on the light, and Selina stood up, throwing some things at his chest. He caught them and looked at the containers—Youth Serum with Ginseng Extract, Skin Brightening Exfoliator, Anti-Wrinkle Oil Cleanser. Bruce squinted at the back of the labels: Wayne Enterprises, Inc.
Bruce looked up and regretted it. The skin on Selina's face was agitated and peeling with redness down to her neck. Her lash line looked sparse, while her eyebrows looked singed. She looked a lot like those burn victims Bruce had to stomach years ago when he went overseas to pretend to give a shit about third world countries. Selina glared at Bruce so hard that he dropped the containers onto the floor.
Selina pointed to her face. "All the women, girls, and gays who bought your product look like this. I know you only watch the news at my place, but the media is up your company's asshole about the 'natural, organic ingredients' Wayne Enterprises insists it's used."
"Wait," Bruce said. "The gays?"
"YOU KNOW THEY LOVE SKINCARE!" she shrieked.
"Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Bruce said, unable to look up from the hardwood floor.
"BRUCE, LOOK AT ME! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"
"What? No! No, I didn't!"
Bruce looked up and tried to look past Selina, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at her splotchy skin now even splotchier from the redness arising out of her anger. Dammit, he just couldn't win.
"Oh my . . ."
"Jesus Christ."
Bruce turned his head to the door frame and the kids openly stared at Selina's face, cringing. Dick grabbed Damian's and Cassandra's shirt collars and attempted to drag them back to the dining room, but they dug their heels into the carpet and gripped onto the door frame's crown molding. "C'mon, guys. Let's leave them alone," Dick said. "It's rude to eavesdrop."
Conner picked up Cassandra and Damian and carried them away, while the others reluctantly left. Dick was about the close the door when Bruce invited him in.
"I need you to do something for me," Bruce said.
Why Bruce couldn't just walk into Wayne Enterprises and tell Deirdre a thing or two was beyond Rich, but he went anyway. Rich had prepared a list of talking points, like whether or not the ingredients were tested before they were mixed together or if the quality of the ingredients affected the product's results, and he rehearsed over and over in his head to sound articulate and intelligent and benign.
Rich knocked on the door, and he strained to hear Deidre's deep, muffled voice say "come in". He stepped inside, and she was leaning against her desk, her dark gray pencil skirt taught against her hips and thighs. Deirdre's powder blue dress shirt was unbuttoned half way down, a gold necklace dangling dangerously close to her pushed up cleavage. Rich raised an eyebrow. Who the hell hired her? And wasn't she a blonde? When did she dye her hair red?
"Dick Grayson," she said, her voice like velvet. They shook hands, and Rich thought she was crushing his fingers into powder. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much, from Lucius and Alfred."
"It's Rich now," he said. He sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "And it's nice to meet you as well. We have a lot to discuss."
"Oh?" Deirdre crossed her arms against her chest and smirked. The rims of her black lace bra peaked through her shirt. "What exactly do you want to discuss?"
"It's about the customer issues from the new skincare line," Rich said. "Obviously, there are issues with the ingredients, if customers are having problems all across the board."
"So Bruce sent you to do his dirty work for him?" she scoffed. "What exactly does a boy know about business?"
"I know enough to know that you didn't test any of these ingredients, and that either the labels are lying, or the ingredients are just poor quality. I'm guessing the former. That, and the combination of the ingredients on the label shouldn't result in extreme skin irritation; none of these products should on most people. And yet, within several uses, many customers are boycotting Wayne Enterprises' products, putting up pictures of their faces all over social media. Most of them look like they have rosacea, and the hair on their faces looks burnt. So what exactly are you playing at here, Deirdre?" Rich asked. "What's really in those bottles?"
Deirdre smiled grimly, her eyes burning into Rich's. "You know, I think Dick suits you better," she said. "And I appreciate all the detective work, honey, but it was a bad batch. I've apologized for that oversight, and Bruce has met with some of the unfortunate victims. We've refunded all of the dissatisfied customers their money. So we did what we were supposed to do as a company."
"I tested some of those products," Rich said slowly. "They contained acetone peroxide, which is a chemical used in explosives. What exactly was it doing in a wrinkle cream, or an cleansing oil?"
"Get out of my office," Deirdre spat. "Or I'll kick you out."
"Nice meeting you," Rich said.
He walked out of the office and searched for Lucius Fox, who had to know about the company's issues in the past month, right? Rich went to Lucius' office, which seemed abandoned. He drew a line in the layer of dust on the desk and flipped through a report tossed into the in-box. May 5, 2015—that was a month ago. The pages indicated that sales had been steady, although a lot of funds had been spent on the new skincare and cosmetics line. "To be expected," it read in the margins; Lucius always believed you had to spend money in order to turn a real profit in business. At the end of the report, firearms technology that Wayne Tech was best known for had been put on hold, for now. But some of the existing products not sold in the past month seemed to have gone missing in the warehouses. "Internal theft" was written in hasty handwriting. "Must verify inventory at once."
Rich shoved the report into his backpack.
"Diets aren't just about eating less, Mr. Wayne," Conner said as he easily completed his fifth set of 100 pull-ups. "It's about exercise too."
"But why can't everyone just accept me for who I am?" Bruce asked, heaving on the treadmill. "Why can't everyone love the new me? Why do I have to be handsome, in-shape, 'doing it better than you' Bruce Wayne? Why can't I just be a normal guy, who gave up on this rat race called life, who enjoys eating steak tartare and half a cheesecake on occasion?"
"Because you're not healthy, and I don't want you to die!" Damian shouted. "Your life isn't just about you anymore!"
Bruce stopped walking, and almost smacked himself into a wall in the Batcave. He turned off the treadmill and shuffled over to his tweenage son (he could hardly walk; the chafing in his thighs was killing him), pulling him into an awkward hug. Damian cried into his father's shoulder, unabashed, sobbing into the shirtsleeve already damp from Bruce's sweat. As he held Damian in his arms, Bruce realized that he had done a great amount of stupid shit in his life, including his entire career as Batman, and he should probably behave like an adult. Bruce had lived a pretty hedonistic life, much to his own chagrin. Even with the kids, he hadn't grown up much to suit their needs. Bruce felt a sharp wave of ambivalence—pride in all of the Robins (and Batgirls), but also fear of the absolute fuckedupness that might have attributed to their already fucked psyches. For fuck's sake, was he really doing a better job of taking care of Damian than he did with Dick almost a decade ago? But who was to deny Bruce of his pleasures? The man had to live for something, which was food (and fucking, although would any once-willing Gotham socialite look twice at him now, unless it was out of disgust?) – the two "F"s that had sustained him for this long. Well, there was also revenge, which didn't start with an F, or feel as good as the other two.
But perhaps he could live for something else, someone else . . .
Damian pushed his father away and bolted out of the Batcave. Conner turned to Bruce and nodded, chasing after the kid.
"Would you like a drink?" Alfred asked, holding up a handle of bourbon as he descended down the stairs.
"But what about the calories?" Bruce countered.
"No more than three," Alfred said, pouring a highball glass to the brim. "I can overlook today."
So Bruce sat with Alfred and drank only three glasses of bourbon, not savoring the taste but straight up drinking for the alcohol content. Bruce wondered if three highball glasses were enough to sink the buoyant feeling of regret and figured he might as well try. But as Alfred struggled to drag Bruce's heavy, sweating body up the stairs out of the Batcave, Bruce's half-conscious brain, swimming in bourbon and self-loathing, thought that perhaps it was time to become a real father, no matter how late to the game he was.