Hey Everyone! Sorry this took so long, but I really hope you like it. This is Whumptober prompt 13: Team as a Family. I love this, maybe a little too much, so be prepared for some follow ups to this. This was super fun to write! As always, let me know in the comments if you enjoy. Would love to know if anyone is actually reading this besides me :). Lots of Love to you all - Lorna.
Bruce didn't know how he got himself into these situations. How he now had four sick children around the manor. He was a bit at a loss in all terms, but he had to do something. Whatever spell his boys had been caught in had left them all years younger and unfortunately ill.
The problem was that they only seemed to recall a fraction of their adult memories, enough that they knew who Bruce was and who each other were, but apparently not so much so that they trusted him.
Dick was curled up into a tight ball, unmoving on an oversized chair ar he frantically looking over each of his siblings one by one, almost as though he was afraid if he reached out they would disappear. Tim was silent, alone on one of the couches, sitting fully upright hand politely fold in his lap. His eyes were blank and glassy as he stared off into the distance. Damian was much the same though for entirely different reasons. Complete upright to the point of being rigid, hands to his sides and fisted as though sitting at attention. Bruce swallowed tightly watching a four year old sit so still despite being obviously exhausted. Jason was no where in sight, hidden underneath a desk that provided a barrier between himself and any adult.
It hurt watching them. But he didn't really know what else to do.
Alfred had given him a tutting, sympathetic look before he left the room. Apparently this was something Alfred thought he needed to do alone.
Dick shuddered suddenly, the first movement that he had seen the 7 year old make. It was frightening. Dick had always been his most active child, constantly moving with the sort of grace that occasionally made Bruce wonder if he could actually fly. Sometime gravity seemed to cease to exist for Dick. Now though it looked like it was crushing him down. Bruce moved without thinking, kneeling beside the otherwise occupied chair.
"Hey Chum."
Dick blinked at him, watery eyes still unwilling to linger too long on anything in particular. He sniffled, wiping his nose with his entire arm. Bruce fought the urge to draw him close and never let go.
"Mr. Wayne " He rasped, voice smaller and tighter than it had any right to be.
Bruce made sure that he was near enough that Dick could reach out at any moment, but he didn't force him too. He could see the suppressed anger in Dick's body, shuddering with the force of trying to keep it down. The rage of a grown man stuffed into the body of a sick seven year old. Bruce could see through the anger though, into the festering fear, Dick tried to mask, Bruce could see it for what it was, fear that he would lose those closest to him. Anger that they were always taken away. The sense of loss that he could feel around him, even if he didn't remember why.
"You look like you aren't feeling to well. Is there something I can do to help?"
Dick scowled before quickly covering it up with a polite smile. The effect was somewhat disconcerting. "No thank you." Lie.
Bruce sighed, careful as he unfolded. Without a warning he reached out and pulled Dick up with him, letting him sit on his hip as he waited for Dick's arms to wrap around him. After a moment of shock, Dick obliged. His tiny frame was overly warm and shaking against Bruce's side. Bruce held onto him tighter, both for comfort and to hold him back.
"It's okay Dick." Bruce whispered, quiet enough the other kids wouldn't hear. "It's okay to be angry and it's okay to be scared."
Dick clutched to him tighter, fingers fisting into his shirt. "I want my dad."
Bruce's heart ached at the words, at what he was going to say.
"I'm sorry Dick, your parents- they had an accident at the circus —"
"No." Dick growled, both angry and mournful. "I know my parents are dead. I want my dad."
Bruce froze for a minute, brain not fully catching up with the words.
"Shh Dickie." He whispered while he rocked, swaying back and forth with Dick still resting on his hip. "It's okay, I'm here."
Dick let out a quiet, shuddering breath against Bruce's shoulder, his tiny fingers still gripping the fabric of his shirt as if letting go meant losing something vital. Bruce rested a steadying hand on his back, tracing small circles there like he used to when Dick was young—when he'd wake up crying after nightmares of falling and never landing.
"I've got you," Bruce murmured. "I won't let you go."
Dick buried his face deeper into Bruce's shoulder.
"Daddy." He choked, his next words coming out choked and grating. "I'm—"
Bruce tightened his hold, one hand rubbing slow, steady circles against Dick's trembling back. His heart clenched at the way the boy fit against him, so small, so light—so fragile in a way that Bruce had forgotten was possible.
"I know, chum," Bruce murmured, pressing his cheek against the crown of Dick's dark, sweat-damp hair. "I know."
Dick let out a tiny, hitched breath, the kind that made Bruce's chest ache.
"I don't like this," Dick whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of emotions far too big for his little body. "I don't like feeling like this."
Bruce closed his eyes, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He had spent years watching Dick grow into his own strength, fighting through pain with that same unshakable will he had always carried, even as a child. But now, stripped of years of resilience, he was just a scared little boy. A little boy who had lost too much and knew it, even if he didn't remember all the details.
"I know, Dickie," Bruce soothed, rocking him slightly. "It's okay chum, let it out. You're not alone. I promise."
Dick shuddered again, and then, with a quiet, broken noise, he curled impossibly closer, gripping Bruce's shirt so tightly it was as if he thought letting go would make everything slip away.
Bruce let him hold on.
"You're safe," Bruce whispered. "I won't let anything happen to you. Or to them." He felt Dick tense slightly at the mention of his brothers, and he realized, with quiet understanding, that a part of Dick had been carrying the weight of protecting them—even now, when he was barely keeping himself together.
"They're sick too," Dick mumbled, voice muffled in Bruce's shoulder. "I should be taking care of them."
"You don't have to do that, Dick," Bruce told him gently. "That's my job."
Dick let out a sharp breath, something almost like a choked-off sob, and Bruce tightened his grip.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," Bruce whispered, pressing a kiss into Dick's hair. "You don't have to do this by yourself."
For a long moment, Dick was silent. Then, so quietly Bruce almost didn't hear it—
"Okay."
It wasn't much. It wasn't a complete surrender, not yet. But it was enough.
Bruce held him a little closer, letting the boy's weight settle against him fully as he continued rocking him, whispering quiet reassurances.
And, after a moment, Bruce found himself with an awful of sleeping child. He carefully, as though Dick were glass, carried him to his overly large bed and set him down, tucking the covers around the tired boy. Even in sleep, Dick's hands reach out to grasp something tangible and Bruce lamented that Zitka was nowhere near.
He returned to the his office a moment later, grateful he managed to get one of his boys to sleep and overwhelmed with the idea that he had three more he didn't know how to help. Jason was still tucked away, Tim was still sitting, hands folded politely in his lap, but his feet were swinging just a fraction of the couch. His eyes were looking at his fingers, completely blank, but Bruce got the impression that there was a lot rolling under the surface. There always was with Tim. Damian hadn't moved, not even a fraction, so still his breaths were almost unnoticeable.
He sat stiffly at the far end of the couch, posture rigid despite the obvious fever burning beneath his flushed cheeks. His tiny hands were curled into fists on his lap, his jaw set in stubborn defiance as if he was awaiting orders. His face was a mask, but Bruce could see the exhaustion in the way his eyelids drooped ever so slightly, the way his tiny fingers twitched as though he wanted to move but wouldn't allow himself to. Bruce let out a slow breath even now—tiny, vulnerable, and sick—he refused to let himself be weak.
Bruce watched him carefully, heart aching at the sight.
"You don't have to sit up, you know," Bruce said softly. "You should rest, Damian."
Damian didn't move. His emerald eyes, glassy from the fever, flickered toward Bruce before darting away.
"I am fine," he muttered, voice small but firm.
Bruce reached out slowly, pressing the back of his hand to Damian's forehead after brushing away a couple of the inky black strands. He could feel the heat radiating off the boy's skin, the slight tremble in his frame betraying how unwell he truly felt.
"You're burning up, Dami," Bruce murmured. "Let me help you."
Damian obviously wanted to flinch away from the touch, but forced himself to remain in place, tiny fingers gripping the couch cushions as if holding himself steady. "I do not need help," he whispered. "I am a warrior."
Bruce felt his chest tighten. Damian was four. A child. He shouldn't have to be a soldier.
With careful movements, Bruce shifted extending his free hand toward Damian.
"Come here," he said gently, though with enough force that Damian understood it was an order. Guilt curdled in Bruce's stomach at ordering a traumatized four year old, especially when he knew Damian would do anything he asked, but this was the only way Bruce was going to get through to him.
Damian stiffened, his little fingers curling tighter into the couch fabric. He looked torn, as if there was a battle raging inside him—needing to obey, and wanting the comfort that Bruce was offering, but scared to take it, worried about being seen as weak or unfit..
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, Damian inched forward. He shuffled toward Bruce, movements unsteady from the fever, until he was just within reach. His tiny fingers released their death grip on the couch, and after a brief hesitation, he reached out and tugged at Bruce's sleeve—so light, so hesitant, so uncertain.
Bruce took the invitation for what it was.
With care, he reached over and scooped Damian up, mindful of his too-tense muscles. The moment the boy was secure in his hold, Damian let out a tiny sound, his head resting lightly against Bruce's shoulder—never fully relaxing, but not resisting either.
"Tell me the truth Damian." Bruce rumbled quietly, fingers cupping Damians overly warm cheek,
"I do not feel well," he finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Bruce felt something in his heart break.
Bruce pressed a gentle kiss to Damian's dark hair, rubbing soothing circles against his back. "I know, buddy," he murmured. "I've got you."
Damian let out a shaky breath, his fevered body going limp as he burrowed into Bruce's warmth. He was so small, barely taking up space in Bruce's embrace, his tiny hands fisting into Bruce's shirt as if afraid of being pushed away.
For a long time, Damian remained still. Then, in the smallest, most vulnerable voice Bruce had ever heard, he whispered, "You aren't going to leave?"
Bruce's arms tightened around him instinctively. "Never," he promised. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."
Damian sighed softly, his tense body finally relaxing as the fever and exhaustion pulled him into sleep. Bruce held him close, gently rocking him, heart aching for the child who had never been allowed to be a child.
But tonight, Damian didn't have to be a warrior. He could just be a little boy, safe and loved in his father's arms.
And Bruce would make sure he always knew that, from here on out. Just as with Dick, Damian started to doze off in his arms, as Bruce carried him to Bruce's bed, with Dick still nestled inside fast asleep. Once Bruce had laid Damian down, still semi-aware, his eyes lit up at seeing his brother. Bruce smiled at the recognition, watching Damian crawl to Dick and snuggle close to him. Dick wrapped his arms around the new figure and nestled closer.
Two more kid's to go.
Bruce had always prided himself on being observant. He noticed the small things—the shift in a person's stance before they attacked, the subtle tremor in someone's voice when they were lying, the way his children carried wounds they never spoke of.
And right now, as he looked at Tim, he noticed something that made his chest ache.
Tim was too quiet. He was silent.
The others had made their struggles known in one way or another—Dick's desperate need to be strong for everyone else, Jason's terror, Damian's stubborn resistance to comfort—but Tim?
Tim simply… curled in on himself.
Tim was still sitting on the couch, hands folded politely in his lap unmoving as ever, but his feet were swinging just a fraction, toes moving up and down like he couldn't help but move. His eyes were looking at his fingers, completely blank, but Bruce got the impression that there was a lot rolling under the surface. There always was with Tim. His fevered blue eyes were dull, unfocused though, and he didn't fidget or squirm in any other way like a normal five-year-old would. He wasn't crying, wasn't calling for help, wasn't even making a sound.
He was just waiting.
Waiting for someone to tell him what to do.
Waiting for someone to notice him.
Waiting, because that was what Tim Drake had always done.
Bruce's throat tightened.
He knelt beside the bed, reaching out with slow, careful movements. "Tim?" he called softly.
Tim blinked sluggishly, his fevered gaze shifting toward Bruce. But he didn't answer. He didn't react in the slightest. He barely seemed to comprehend that Bruce was speaking to him, like an adult actually noticing him would be a mistake.
Bruce tried again. "Timmy, how are you feeling?"
A long pause. Then, in the faintest whisper, Tim finally spoke:
"I'm okay."
Bruce's chest ached at how automatic the response was.
He moved closer, resting his hand gently against Tim's forehead. The boy flinched—so subtly Bruce might have missed it if he hadn't been watching closely—but he didn't pull away from the touch. In fact, after a moment, Tim seemed to lean forward, pressing his head more solidly in Bruce's hand, as if unconsciously seeking out the affection he had so often been denied.
"Tim," Bruce murmured, voice as gentle as he could make it, "you don't have to say you're fine if you're not. I want you to tell me the truth, sweetheart."
Tim's little hands clenched weakly in the blankets, his body stiff under the weight of unspoken words. He still didn't move, still didn't look at Bruce directly. His breathing became shallow, and if Bruce wasn't looking for it, he might have missed the way Tim's lower lip trembled.
He didn't say anything, one way or the other, caught between not wanting to lie and not wanting to be seen as a burden.
Bruce exhaled slowly, steady and calm. "Can I hold you?" he asked. He didn't reach out, didn't push, just asked.
Tim stiffened.
For a moment, Bruce thought he might say no.
Then—so, so slowly—Tim lifted his arms just the tiniest bit.
It wasn't much. A small, hesitant movement, barely noticeable in all honesty. But it was everything.
Bruce gathered him up carefully, lifting his tiny, fever-warm body and settling him securely against his chest. Tim was stiff at first, posture awkward, uncertain—as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to accept this. But after a long moment, Tim melted. His tiny hands uncurled from the blanket and hesitantly grasped Bruce's shirt. He pressed his overheated forehead against the crook of Bruce's shoulder, his breathing slow and quiet as he simply laid limp against Bruce.
Bruce rubbed his back gently, his voice soft as he murmured, "I've got you, Tim. You're not alone, and I'm not gonna leave."
The smallest, barely-there hitch of breath.
Tim tightened his grip on Bruce's shirt.
"You did." He whispered, accusatory. Bruce could hear the fear and sadness it was hiding, poorly concealed. It made Bruce's heart shatter to think that the older Tim had become a master at this technique, a couple sharp, deflecting words able to hid the truth he didn't want explored. "I had tu' bring you back. Nobody ever comes back on their own."
Bruce clutched him tighter. "I'm sorry Tim. I was trying, but I needed some help. Thank you for saving me. I'm never going to let you go again."
Though he didn't cry. He didn't sob or wail like a child his age might have with all those rampant emotions coming to the surface of a tired five year old. But Bruce felt the way Tim's tiny body relaxed against him, the way his shallow breathing steadied, the way he burrowed just a little closer, as if finally allowing himself to be held.
Bruce pressed a gentle kiss to Tim's soft hair, rocking him ever so slightly. "You don't have to be quiet, honey," he murmured. "I want to hear you, Tim."
Tim didn't answer. But after a long moment, his small arms wrapped around Bruce's neck in the faintest, weakest hug. He could hear a choked inhale and feel hot tears sliding down his neck.
Bruce held him tighter, and let him cry. He needed to get it out, these feelings had been festering for years and the past months had only deepened a gaping hole. Bruce waited until Tim's breathing had gone from ragged gasps, to soft inhales, before he carefully stood up and laid his with his sleeping brothers. Dick, ever the protector, even in sleep threw a hand out to rest on Tim's leg.
One more to go, and Bruce didn't know if his poor heart could take any more. It hurt, watching his kids cry and suffer, but it also gave him the ability to see his children at ages he never had been able to before.
Bruce was used to seeing Jason angry.
Jason, in all stages of his life, had a temper—one that could burn hot and fast, fueled by injustice and passion and a heart that felt too much. As a child, Bruce had been able to help control the anger when it occasionally flared. The more time Bruce had spent around Jason, as Jason had come to trust him, and understand that he was indeed safe and that Bruce and Alfred and even Dick wouldn't kick him to the curb, his temper had cooled, until that horrible day.
Now, Jason's temper had come back like a star. It burned hot, and constant. Bruce blamed the pit, poisoning the way Jason saw the world, twisting and pollution his emotions. The league had only threw gasoline on an already blazing fire. It had taken time, was still taking time, to help Jason wrangle the flames, but they had finally started to make progress, though even as an adult, Jason often wielded his rage like a shield, deflecting anything that tried to get too close.
But this?
This wasn't that Jason.
This Jason—a small, fragile version of his son, no older that five or maybe six—was not angry.
He was terrified.
And that was so much worse.
Bruce searched the room until he found him, hiding under the desk, curled up so small that it hurt to look at him. His tiny shoulders were trembling, his breaths coming in soft, panicked little gasps. And when Bruce had crouched down to look at him—
Jason flinched.
"Jay," Bruce had murmured, careful to keep his voice gentle. "It's okay."
Jason just shook his head, trying and failing to scoot further back as he smacked a wall, blue eyes wide and haunted.
Bruce had felt his heart crack right down the middle.
Because Jason wasn't looking at him like a father.
He was looking at him like a wraith. Like he wasn't sure if Bruce was there to hurt him or take him away.
Bruce swallowed past the lump in his throat, forcing his expression to stay calm. "Jason," he tried again, keeping his voice soft, steady. "You're safe. I promise."
Jason's tiny hands curled into fists.
"S' not true. Don't lie to me." He gasped, choking on panicked inhales.
Bruce blinked, eyes crinkling sadly as he replied. "I don't lie to you Jason."
And it was true. Bruce had told himself that he wasn't ever going to lie to Jason unless it was absolutely necessary.
"You- your batman. I- I killed people and I hurt you and don't lie to me!" Jason sobbed.
"Jason." Bruce whispered, heat clenching painfully. He resisted the urge to pull the kid out from under the desk and bundle him in his arms. Very carefully, he lowered himself to the floor beside the desk. Close enough for Jason to see him clearly, but not close enough to make him feel like he was looming. "I'm not lying to you Jaylad."
Bruce hesitated for a moment voice soft as he let Jason slowly calm down and realize that he was safe. "You're not feeling good, huh?"
Jason curled further into the wall. "M'fine," he mumbled.
Bruce's chest tightened. He hated how automatic the lie came. Jason was not fine. He was exhausted, his little face flushed from fever, his body clearly aching.
But he still replied with a quiet. "Okay." With deliberate movements, so Jason could tell what he was about to do, he stood up. He had half expected Jason to make a run for it once he was far enough away, but he must have been feeling even worst than he let on because he didn't even move. Bruce grabbed a weighted blanket from off a nearby sofa and returned, laying it out in front of the desk where Jason could grab it without leaving his perceived safe place.
He watched Jason blink before slowly crawling forward and snatching the blanket as though he were afraid Bruce would pull it away if given the chance.
"Better?" Bruce questioned after the very last edge of the blanket had disappeared.
"Thnks'." The little bundle of blanket replied.
"I promise your safe here Jason." Bruce repeated, but he didn't urge the little boy to craw out of the hide hole. He just waited, setting his hand out in plain view so that Jason could let him know if he needed anything. He felt like it was a small eternity before he heard absent shuffling.
There was a little head that popped out, eyes slightly terrified but determined. They were bluer than Bruce had seen them in a long time. He pushed unruly black hair out of his face before he cautiously moved closer to Bruce. For his part, Bruce made sure not to move or directly look at the little figure. Little fingers curled around his, overly warm but present. He squeezed the tiny hand in his gently, just to let him know that he was listening.
After another moment there was a weight against his arm and only after a second little arm wrapped around his did he dare to look down. Jason was curled around his side, head lolling to the side as he sat.
"You're not mad at me?" Jason asked, his voice tiny and unsure.
"What would I be mad at you for, Jay?" Bruce replied.
"I broke your rules." Jay whispered, even more quiet than before. "I-I disobey and am mean to you and I hurt my siblings and —"
"Shh, Jason." Bruce soothed, voice rumbling.
"I'm sorry." Jason mewled, curling into Bruce but bundling up as though he desperately wanted comfort but was afraid. "I'm sorry."
"Shh, Jaylad. Everything is okay." Bruce cautiously moved his freehand to rub Jason's quaking back. "Breathe Jason. It's alright."
It took minutes of reassurance before Jason's shuddering finally stopped. "Shh. Jay. It's okay."
Jason breathed in and out still nestled close to Bruce.
"I'm sorry." He whispered again.
"I know." With only a slight hesitation, Bruce took the small, precious bundle of blankets and pulled it onto his lap. "I forgive you Jason. And I can only hope that one day you can forgive me too. I love you, Jason," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I will always love you. You're mine."
For a long moment, Jason didn't move.
Then, so hesitantly, so carefully, he inched forward.
Bruce stayed perfectly still, waiting.
And then—
Tiny arms wrapped around Bruce's neck, clinging so tightly it was like he was afraid Bruce would disappear. Bruce caught him, gathering him even closer, cradling him securely against his chest. Jason's tiny body shook, his little hands gripping at Bruce's shirt like he was holding on for dear life.
And then, in the quietest voice imaginable, Jason whispered:
"…I love you too, dad."
Bruce's throat burned.
"Oh, Jason," he breathed.
He pressed his cheek against Jason's soft curls, rocking him gently. "I'm never letting you go again" he whispered. "I love you so much, sweetheart."
Jason let out a small, broken sob—and Bruce just held him, one hand running soothingly up and down his back.
"I've got you," Bruce murmured.
Jason sniffled, his breath shaky and uneven, but he burrowed further into Bruce's chest.
And Bruce—Bruce just held him tighter. Because Jason had spent so long feeling unwanted and unloved. Feeling like Bruce had given up on him. Like his father had chosen everything else over him.
But none of that was true.
And if Jason had to be de-aged for Bruce to finally tell him that—then so be it.
Because Jason deserved to know just how much he was loved.
And Bruce was going to spend every second of the rest of his life making sure he and all of his siblings never forgot it again.
Jason's little fingers were still curled into Bruce's shirt, clutching tight—so tight, like he was afraid Bruce would disappear if he let go. His body trembled with fever and exhaustion, but still, he held on, his small breaths coming in uneven little gasps.
Bruce pressed a gentle kiss to Jason's dark curls, rocking him slightly as he stood up. "I've got you," he murmured. "I won't leave, Jason."
Jason shuddered once more—then, finally, finally—he let himself relax.
Bruce held him close, rubbing slow, soothing patterns against his back, feeling the tiny hitch of Jason's breath as he drifted into sleep. With gentle movements, he carefully took Jason to his now very full bed. Still clutching Jason, Bruce slid into his bed watching as Jason drowsily blinked at him before realizing where they were. Bruce heart burst when Jason made a happy, little noise when he saw all his brothers in one giant pile and crawled a step forward to flop on Tim.
Though he was excited to have the kids back to normal, Bruce smiled at the thought of watching them like this for another day or two as the spell wore off. They were all going to be so embarrassed he finally found a way to get baby pictures of them all.