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His kids say he has a problem.
Initially, Bruce didn’t bat an eye at the declaration. Those who dress up in costumes to fight criminals at night tend to have problems. Later clarification revealed that it wasn’t a 'tough and hardened Batman who gets shot at multiple times a night and walks it off' problem, but rather a 'loving mother Bruce Wayne who birthed and raised seven kids' problem. That had caught his attention. His mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusions. Was someone hurt? Had he said something wrong? Did he greatly overestimate his capabilities, and are his kids about to accuse him of being the worst parent alive?
His worries were kindly quelled by his eldest, who had claimed Bruce suffered from something called Mom Brain—whatever that is. Dick took great pleasure in the concerned face Bruce wore when he curiously asked, “Is that a disease?”
It's true, he's a mom. His children call him such, as does the media and society as a whole. A mother to seven beautiful children, some he raised since birth, some he’s taken in at varying ages, though always treated as his own. Three IVF treatments (how rich, single omegas avoid needing an alpha for any reason, as Tim calls it), three adoptions (letting instinct win and kidnapping orphaned children, which is what Stephanie accuses him of), one passionate fling with a certain female alpha (the only respectable parentage, a phrase that keeps getting Damian scolded), and around two and a half decades later, Bruce has the family he’s always wanted. Yet somehow, throughout the years, he seems to have missed the development of this odd Mom-Brain disorder he’s been diagnosed with.
Bruce investigates, which is what he does best, and finds that it’s a phenomenon that comes as a result of child-rearing, characterized by forgetfulness and confusion. He thinks that his kids are making fun of him for his age again. He wouldn't put it past them, what with the feigned, mocking sobs that come out when the idea of putting Bruce in a home is jokingly brought up—to which Bruce threatens to leave all of his kids out of the will—but he had a feeling it went deeper than that.
Looking for a viable answer, Bruce asked the one person he thought would be able to provide one.
“You don’t know what it means?” Duke questioned, an inflection in his voice revealing that he finds this amusing.
Bruce sheepishly answers, “I just don’t think I’m quite… grasping the concept.” He nestles next to the beta on the couch, who was watching a strange cable TV show before Bruce had walked in.
“Couldn’t figure it out?”
“Couldn’t understand how it applies to me,” Bruce corrected, “I was hoping you, out of all the others, could help me.”
Duke chuckles, shaking his head at his mother's stubborn need for understanding. “I can give an example.”
Please, Bruce thinks, solve this mystery the world’s greatest detective couldn’t crack. He nods and urges Duke to continue.
“In middle school, I was coming home from my Youth for Gotham club meeting. All I wanted to do was climb into the nest and nap until dinner—I had a really long day. I washed up and made my way over, expecting to have to fight for your attention. Turns out, the others were all busy with their own things that day, so I jumped into bed all excited ‘cause I had you all to myself.”
Bruce doesn't quite recall this day, but he's pleased that his son remembers it so fondly. Duke continues, “So I cuddled up on top of you, even though Steph laughed at me the day before, saying I was too old to be acting like a pup, and you started running your hand up and down my back.”
“Like this?” Bruce mimics the all-too-familiar motion. Each of his children had different preferences when it came to soothing touches—Duke had always liked the feeling of a comforting hand on his back as he decompressed in the pack nest.
The boy laughs, leaning into their embrace and nodding. “It was so calming, all I could smell was blackberries and espresso, a little bit of leather from last night's patrol. I was about to fall asleep, but then you asked how my day was. I told you how Cass made a funny joke at breakfast that no one else heard, and that my math teacher had cold-called me and I got the answer right, and how my club wants to take us to volunteer at pet shelters for our next trip."
Duke pauses to think about what came next. "There was probably more that I can't remember, but this was years ago. Either way, the story lasted, like, fifteen minutes, and I wasn’t even done telling it yet. I was about to tell you what Alfred told me he’s cooking for dinner when your hand stopped and you got all tense.” His smile grows at this, so Bruce knows the story’s coming to an end, but he’s not sure if he’ll like it.
“Then you ask me, in all seriousness, with full concern, ‘Did you go to club today?’” Duke's body shakes with laughter as Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “After I spent maybe half of my story talking about it, you ask me if I even went.”
Bruce’s hand comes to a stop, resembling what he had done in Duke's story. “Oh, Duke, I'm sorry," he frowns, "I didn’t mean to disregard you like that—”
“No, B, it’s not about that," he's grinning despite Bruce's despondence, "It’s about how you were probably thinking about everything on everyone’s agenda for that day. I bet you had just gotten to the part where I stay at school instead of being picked up with the others on your really, really long mental checklist.” Duke is still laughing, but Bruce doesn’t think it’s all that funny. He should listen to his children more, and this odd habit was not one he was aware of. Alfred did not teach him to interrupt.
“We know you juggle a lot of things at once; you’re a CEO, a vigilante, and you have six kids who don't really have the best self-preservation skills. That's gotta be at least a little bit stressful. "
Bruce refrains from telling him that's the understatement of the year. The side of his mouth nearly quirks up into a small smile, "You're not included?"
Duke is smug with his answer, "'Course not. And I was never angry at you for ignoring me. It’s just that sometimes you tend to be a bit…”
Bruce raises an eyebrow in question.
“Scatterbrained.”
He pouts, “I’m not scatterbrained.”
“Yeah, mom, you are,” Duke says as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.
“Batman isn’t scatterbrained,” he petulantly counteracts.
“But Bruce can be—and not the one in the news, I'm talking about the real you who chose to have a million pups for some reason," Duke says it like it's the most inane idea in the world, and to some, it might be. Bruce, however, wouldn't trade it for anything. "Now, you can’t go five minutes without relaxing. You're scatterbrained," he throws his hands up in finality, as if they've come to an obvious conclusion.
Well, Bruce supposes that’s correct. After all these years, he’s learned that the times when he's most stressed aren't when he's wearing a cowl and fighting his way out of possibly life-ending situations, but rather trying to get however many children ready for school on a morning where they all seemed to have caught a particularly crabby attitude (Bruce thought it was an airborne spread, but he wasn't able to prove it before they all grew out of their tantrum phases.)
He’ll give Duke this one and let it go.
Except, there's one thing that troubles him.
“Did it ever bother you?”
Duke's hesitation gives Bruce the answer he needs. “A little bit. I mean, I was young so—”
Thinking for a second on how to approach this, Bruce stares at Duke, almost unnervingly. Duke can practically see the cogs turning in the omega's head as he tries to figure out exactly what to say, something he started doing ever since Dick presented. He brings Duke impossibly closer, “I apologize, sweetheart. I never want you to feel…" he searches for the right word, "unconsidered like that.”
Duke relishes the kiss placed upon his forehead, “I know, Ma’, and I never have felt like that. Not in the past, not now.”
“I love you, kid." Bruce is unable to catch himself before pinching Duke's cheek, which must be another one of his Mom-like habits, and he gets the usual groan and swat of hands in response. "Now that I know of this—problem—of mine, I’ll try to be more…”
“Mentally present?”
He winces, “I was going to say attentive. You’re making me sound crazy.”
“You aren’t?”
Bruce sighs, gives him one last squeeze, before leaving him on the couch.
“Love you too!”
After a short round of interviews, Bruce has learned a couple of new things about himself.
He's gotten personal anecdotes from nearly all of his pups on the occurrence Duke claimed as evidence of his Mom-Brain syndrome. Damian had refused to participate, saying that his mother would never be so distracted and careless. His milky, puppy scent spiked in the same way it does when an alpha is getting too handsy with Mr. Wayne at a gala or when a thug is trying to get the jump on Batman from behind: protective in a way that makes Bruce want to coo at him, hold him close, and praise him for his efforts at keeping his mother safe (despite said mother being the Batman).
Not even the Batman cowl could grant Bruce the strength to break his little Damian's heart by telling him that, yes, unfortunately, his siblings are right. He can be stupidly scatterbrained sometimes.
Jason had told him of an instance where he had gotten in trouble at school while standing up against some older students who were picking on Tim, anxiously wondering if his mother was going to punish him, as his principal had said he would. Little Jason, who couldn't be any older than nine according to Big Jason, was wringing his hands together as he regaled the story from his point of view—making sure to mention that the bullies were grades above him and that they had cornered Little Tim after recess—as Bruce braided Cass's hair in the living room. His mother had stayed silent until the end, and for a couple of minutes afterward as well. After five more minutes of silence, the two braids were perfectly tied, and Little Jason's worry had grown, thinking Bruce was seriously angry at him for using the tiniest bit of violence to get those bullies to back off his baby brother. It was then that Bruce finally spoke.
"Have you eaten yet?"
Bruce failed to see the issue with what he said.
Big Jason then promptly mentioned how this had occurred directly after dinner.
Another memorable incident had Bruce flushing with embarrassment. Steph recounted a day when she was doing her homework on the couch in Bruce's office as he did his paperwork. Both were satiated, basking in their shared, comfortable silence, when suddenly Bruce jumped out of his chair.
Steph had dropped her pencil at the disturbance, crying out a question of what was wrong.
"I thought I needed to pick Damian up from daycare," Bruce had explained before sitting back down and resuming his work as if nothing had ever happened. Steph was utterly confused, partly because Damian was never enrolled in any kind of daycare, and partly because Bruce was holding Damian in his lap—before the kid was jostled around in his arms at the outburst.
Hearing this story had jogged Bruce's memory; he had a dream the night prior where he placed Damian in a daycare program. He doesn't know if telling Steph this will make the situation sound any less bizarre, so he decided against it, leaving her with even more confusion than before when Bruce slinked away from the conversation after thanking her for the information.
What had really nailed his metaphorical coffin shut—the coffin being the realization that perhaps motherhood had affected him in more ways than he had known of—was Dick's short retelling of a night from last week.
They had been working tirelessly on a case for hours until Bruce had sent the alpha to bed. He originally thought that was the punchline Dick was aiming for, that he told his grown son to go get some sleep, but it wasn't. After changing and freshening up in the cave, Dick had returned wearing sleepwear and a wet towel around his neck to wish his mom goodnight, but he couldn't get the simple words out before Bruce spoke first.
"Did you brush your teeth?"
Bruce's face flushes at Dick's astoundment.
"Mom, look at me."
Bruce raises his head, totally not sulking.
"I'm twenty-five," the alpha enunciates, "I have a degree, a day job, and my own place. You don't need to tell me to brush my teeth."
On one hand, Bruce's babies will always be babies to him, so he would like to deflect these accusations. On the other hand, Bruce might finally be willing to admit that perhaps this issue goes deeper than he thought.
Bruce lets his guard down around his family.
For some of his pups, he went through almost ten months of creating them inside his body, arduous and long hours of labor, fed them when they were tiny enough to hold in his arms, taught them to walk and to talk, and showed them right from wrong. For the three he didn't bear, Bruce still treasures the moments spent helping with math homework at the dinner table, the emotional talks they had with him when family was a touchy subject on some nights, presenting them the adoption papers, signing said adoption papers sitting beside them, sending them off on their first days of school with their new siblings, and watching the love between each kid grow every day with unquestioned acceptance at every new addition.
There has never been, and never will be, any reason to keep his Batman walls up around his family, even when it comes to the elaborate schemes some of them manage to pull when he has his back turned. Much like the current moment, where Bruce is seated at the Bat-computer, blissfully unaware of what's transpiring behind him—he knows he is, and he’s fine with it.
Batman isn’t here, Bruce is (flaunting baggy sweatpants that have long since lost their band's stretch, styled with a t-shirt he thinks belongs to Jason), and Bruce is always comfortable around his children. They're the lights of his life, the reasons he feels any warmth in the cold landscape of Gotham, a posse of conniving troublemakers that love to instigate, but right now, Bruce doesn’t know how many of them are scuffling around the cave. And he doesn’t want to know.
He’s a busy man, the busiest man in Gotham, maybe the busiest on Earth. He’s a man who works three full-time jobs if parenting counts—and it definitely does—so he’d rather continue typing away at his keyboard and let their ministries fizzle out at some point. If Bruce were less preoccupied, he could probably identify them through scent, but, courtesy to him, they’ve gotten better at hiding it.
Besides, it seldom bothers him when his kids pull pranks. As long as no one is hurt, or about to get hurt, and no one is crying, the disorder they bring to his life is seen through rose-color glasses. His pups are getting along! They're having fun together, and they're all happy! Nothing appeases Bruce's omega more than all of his children, content and excited and playing, under one roof—even if it always brings havoc to the manor.
The sound of movement echoes in the cave, footsteps, rustling of fabric, too-quiet-to-hear whispering, but again, Bruce is quite busy at the moment! He could tell his children apart by their footsteps, and he could make out the whispers that weren’t meant for him, but he is working. He knows his kids love him too much to do anything more than mildly inconvenience him, so he continues typing away.
Then Bruce hears a giggle.
Maybe he should check which children are with him. Just to bring him peace of mind.
There's Tim. He's sure he can smell the omega's natural burnt sugar and citrus scent mixing with the fancy shampoo he's always liked to use, who most likely came down to collect files—ever the determined detective. Someone is whispering. It's Dick, who doesn’t usually feel the need to subdue his scent of incense and spring around Bruce. He smells Damian, whose sweet, milky scent remains unmistakable. Cass's scent has always been hard to discern as she was taught at a young age to hide it. That doesn’t exclude the alpha from being a part of the fray gathering behind his chair; Bruce can now make out her scent if he tries hard enough, a lasting skill that came from raising her since early childhood. He hears complaining (Damian, with the prepubescent squeak of a pup), then hushing (Jason, the hush sounds the slightest bit like a growl).
What exactly are they doing?
A DNA match is found, blaring red on the monitor, and his train of thought is pulled back to the screen. Bruce chooses to think nothing of their antics, effectively honoring the fact that ignorance is bliss, whilst simultaneously pleased that his pups feel safe and content enough to pull silly tricks on him. It’s not as if that’s a rare occurrence, but the realization never loses its novelty—he has a happy family, and the thought always pleases him.
Finally, one of them speaks.
“Love you, mom.”
“I love you more, dear,” he replies without thinking nor turning around. He can’t help it. A habit is hard to break when you’ve been doing it since your eldest was a child, which was over two decades ago, even if Bruce thinks of it as if it were yesterday.
He hears laughter—not the hushed giggling that comes from a flock of birds who know they’re doing something they’re not supposed to, but what sounds like a studio audience. Bruce finally turns around to find five of his kids laughing at him, and he knows he should be worried, but his babies are laughing, and it makes his inner-omega purr, even if he might be at the butt of the joke.
“What’s so funny?” Bruce asks, genuinely. He isn’t the type to get defensive over something as seemingly harmless as this; he simply wants to know the reason behind their joy.
Dick speaks for them, in the middle of Tim and Jason, who are wiping tears from their eyes and hunched over wheezing, respectively. “Do you know?” Dick supplies an ominous answer.
“Know what?” Bruce is starting to get wary, but his heart’s still warmed by the sight of Damian silently snickering into his hands—trying not to look as foolishly amused as his brothers are, yet unable to contain his laughter—next to a Cassandra wearing a beaming smile.
“Know which one of us said it,” Dick finishes, "We're testing you."
Testing? Testing for what?
Bruce is almost about to laugh as well at their silliness. Now that he knows his options and has heard the voice, he can most definitely narrow it down. The voice was male, so it wasn’t Cass. It held the weight of a boy beyond presentation, so it wasn’t Damian. 'Mom' wasn’t typically used by Jason as he opted for a more bluntly shouted and Gotham-accented 'Ma'. Tim tends to speak a bit more monotonously, and the words spoken had a lilt to them near the end.
This leaves Dick as the most viable answer. Bruce opens his mouth to say as such.
Yet his eyes do a once-over on the five standing in front of him. He promptly shuts his mouth and reevaluates. Cass doesn’t have a particularly high pitch to her tone, so it wouldn’t be safe to rule her out. Damian, while still young, is growing quickly—much to Bruce’s adamant protest that he can’t handle another bird fleeing the nest—and has recently had some vocal fluctuations. Jason indeed prefers to call Bruce Ma, but the alpha has been known to throw out some other names as well. He’d be especially prone to do so if he were actively trying to mess with Bruce. That extends to Tim, who possibly gave his words a little bit more life to successfully pull off this joke.
If anyone were to understand how to trick him, it would definitely be his own pups. So maybe Dick isn't the most viable answer. He has no idea who he was talking to—it was an involuntary act, hence the neutral nickname he hadn't even realized he'd said.
A small, subtle smile adorns Bruce’s face (not one of embarrassment, not at all) as the realization dawns on him. “I can't say I do,” he confesses, an even smaller laugh coming out of him as well, which only causes his children to have another fit of their own. Happy pups.
“World’s Greatest Detective,” Jason teases in air-quotes.
The omega fruitlessly attempts defending himself, “I wasn’t paying the most apt attention—”
“At least he loves us all equally,” Tim says between breaths.
“I do love you all equally.” He speaks genuinely, and his kids recognize that. It’s a sweet thought, but apparently not sweet enough to stop them from having their fun.
Dick and Cass antagonize Damian as he defends his mother's honor. He's on the verge of joining them in their amusement, yet still devotedly enacts his self-appointed job.
Bruce can’t help but huff another breath of laughter, his smile growing the tiniest bit wider. "Quit that, you'll upset Dames."
The laughter dies down as they make their way upstairs—saying something about how that's another one of Bruce's mannerisms: thinking they're fighting when they're actually not. Can you blame him? His children love each other, but more often than not, there are fires (metaphorical and one time literal) that have to be put out before breakfast.
The five leave him to finish his work before dinnertime comes. They had left knowing their mother was still working, Damian on Cass's shoulder as the leader, while the other three conversed behind—probably about him.
Despite the calm exit, Bruce bets they’re practically running to tell the others. He can't help but hope they have a good laugh about it.
It was Dick, he thinks to himself.
Truthfully, pregnancy did change Bruce—a lot.
When he had decided to go through with IVF, he was roughly the age that Dick currently is. He looks upon his firstborn through eyes that still see him as the pup he'd borne all those years ago. He sees Dick and thinks of him still as a child, and wonders if that's how Alfred saw him when he brought up the idea of using a donor.
Alfred had his doubts—Bruce doesn't blame him for having had them—but his search for light in his life led him to the most wonderful baby boy anyone could ever ask for. There was no Robin yet, not until Dick had grown older, presented, fully alpha, and desperately aching to have his mother's back when Batman chose to dance with death. There was no Robin back then, no dynamic duo—at least not one that others knew of, not the one that traversed city skylines and saved lives nightly; there was just them.
And God, were they something beautiful.
It was perfect, all of it was, both of them were. Bruce carefully picked out a donor, spending months deliberating which sample would ensure him a happy and healthy child. His pregnancy had left him feeling no different than usual for the most part, so much so that he regularly continued patrolling up until his third trimester, where he became too heavy to do so safely. The birth was to be expected; it was painful, it made him cry, and he'd hated that. Hated that someone so emotionally solid could be brought to tears in such a moment—one that he had asked for, paid for, planned for. He spent as much time pushing as he did forcing his tears back. He was Batman; he can take it.
He forgot all about his hormone-induced self-loathing once Richard Thomas Wayne was placed gently on his chest, the skin-to-skin contact firing millions of neurons inside his brain, telling him this is what he's been searching for.
The pup cried and cried, the sound splitting the room in half. On one side, there was the lovely and ever-so-patient staff whom he had entrusted to Dr. Thompkins for acquiring, the ones who had adeptly guided him through the hells of labor until it was over, until he had a sweet bundle of joy to show for his hard work—a reward, a reason. On the other side was the boy who had been there throughout every step of this journey, whether in his thoughts or building up inside his body. There was the boy who was destined to introduce radiance, brilliance, and love into Bruce's disconsolate existence that had been plaguing Wayne Manor long before his beginnings as Batman.
Bruce had cried again. That time, he didn't berate himself; rather indulged. He cried and cried, considerably quieter than Dick had, and held his pup close because he knew that this was what he was always meant to have—a family.
They were everything he had ever hoped for; they were everything he had ever wanted. They were perfect.
Until they weren't.
He and his children joke about it now, but there was a time he was more than simply scatterbrained. There was a time when he didn't know himself, and it scared him and Alfred more than anything.
Bruce was forgetful, sure, but paranoid—more than usual. He was scared, he was hormonal, and he felt useless. He would stay up every hour of the night, much like he used to before Dick was born, to keep a watchful eye over his pup. The bassinet was right next to his bed, in his eyesight, and clearly filled with life. Bruce thought the moment he closed his eyes, Dick would stop breathing. In bleary mornings or languid nights, he would grab Dick's baby bottle, nearly take a sip, then realize his coffee was sitting on the table in front of him, or that he hadn't had a cup at all. The parenting books he read throughout his pregnancy suddenly seemed like hieroglyphics, the words blurring together incomprehensibly for what felt like hours until he shut the book in surrender. He'd lose his keys and begin a search without realizing they're in his hand. He'd lose track of where he parked at Dick's and his monthly checkups and spend thirty minutes looking for his car before calling Alfred to get the two of them out of the cold. So many emotions of various kinds coursing through him daily, so many mistakes made that could've been normal had it been anyone except him—so unlike him, so unlike the person he used to be.
When Dick was a couple of months older and had a bad case of colic, Bruce would trade a night of rest for a night spent rocking him soothingly, just trying to get the little pup to calm down enough to breathe. Bruce could do without sleep, but the sight of his baby tirelessly sobbing, without so much as a gasp, to the point of turning blue, had him begging a deity he hadn't believed in for a long time for just one night.
One night where he didn't wake up in a panic, wondering if Dick had gone still in his sleep. One night where he can finish a book he'd started before giving birth. One night where he doesn't get into the shower with his nursing top on. One night where Dick quietly settled down and gave Bruce peace of mind that he wasn't going to suffocate to death.
A night where he could be Batman again.
Oh, he realizes, that's what I've been missing.
And isn't that just the greediest thing?
He's tired. He's sloppy. He can't do the simplest things right. He's in no condition to be going out at night, in no condition to be vigilant and quick-witted. If he patrolled in this state, he wouldn't only be putting his life at risk, but others as well. Yet his city is eating itself from the inside out. Alfred's been keeping him from the Batcave, preaching recovery above all else, though Bruce has been on comms. He hears the distress calls from women trying to get home at night, the police radio that relays break-ins and robberies and domestic disputes, and the Arkham breakouts where he can't do anything but lead from behind a headpiece.
And he tries, tries so hard to be of service at a time like this. At a time when a city's sole protector chose to be selfish, when he chose his own happiness over hers.
Bruce holds Dick to his chest, allowing the little pup to feed to his heart's content, as he tries to solve the Riddler's latest cipher. He changes a diaper while keeping his eyes on a screen that runs a diagnostic of Ivy's latest spores. He gently rocks the bouncer that Dick is sleeping on with his foot so the pup won't wake up when he's just about to crack down on the Joker's location.
And sometimes it doesn't work—this whole balance thing, the middle ground between his two lives. Sometimes the rocking isn't enough, sometimes he stops the motion for just a second as he makes quick work of finding the clown, and Dick wakes up crying, screaming for his mother, and Bruce has to will everything in himself to stay put right where he is because his baby is fine and his baby is not dying and his baby can stay hungry or uncomfortable or sad for just one more minute because if he doesn't do this right now, other people will die and it's all going to be his fault for even thinking he had a chance at playing house when he was much more needed elsewhere—
Then sometimes, just as he sends over the coordinates to Gordon, he hears it. A shrill cry, a repetition of two syllables, a loud and staggering sound: a pup's warble followed by a distinct call for "Mama!"
Bruce rushes to hold him, smiling the brightest he had since the pup's birth nine months ago. Dick quiets, content in his mother's arms, nestled in the crook of his neck with a couple of fingers in his mouth as his breathing evens out. The little tyke lets himself find dreamland, succumbing to the calming, motherly scent that surrounds him, and leaves Bruce to silently coo over his first words. Words of wanting, words that finally set in stone that this little pup relies on him, depends on him, wants nothing more than to be near the only place he considers safe: his mama.
Such a scary thought, to be the foundation that this child will build off of, but so inspiring. Nine months he's spent, nearly a year when counting the time spent resting before Dick's birth, cherishing the new life he's made instead of fostering the city he dedicated his time, his identity, his life to protecting, and he would almost hate himself for not regretting it.
Almost.
Without Dick, Bruce would have succumbed to a darkness he knew he was fully capable of a long time ago. Gotham, with its influence that digs deep into marrow and keeps its people feeling confined, needed someone to lift Bruce out of his confines and to keep constraints on Batman lest he become something sinister. This city is a dark, dismal place, but once, there came light. A ray of hope that transcended beyond Bruce Wayne and Batman, but to the streets—to the normal, everyday people who thought there was no hope left to expect. Talks of a fae-like child supplying blankets to those who had to choose food over heat during the winter. Sightings of a green-clad boy who hands out water on the hottest days of the year, swift movements too fast to see much of him, just a delivery of supplies and a gust of wind—a flash of a kid with dark hair who flips with ease, only looking back to smile, all youth in what was visible of his face, if you thank him.
Robin, who fights alongside Batman. Robin, who helps civilians and comforts victims. Robin, the first one, the first son of Batman, the first glimmer of faith in a city everyone deemed beyond saving. The golden boy.
Bruce always swore to fight for Gotham—to make it a place suitable to raise a family in, to raise Dick in. What he never accounted for was how hard Dick would fight for it too.
He makes sure to regularly remind his pup, now grown and beyond such a status, how he couldn't be prouder of the type of man Dick grew up to be.
"It was all you, mom, don't get sappy," his son brushes off the affection. Though the scent of pride fills the room each time.
Bruce tells him it's an overdue sentiment. He was doomed the second he heard Dick's first cry. He was well past the point of saving when Dick asked to be Gotham's second protector.
Much like Jason's kindness, or Tim's intellect, or Cass's talent, no amount of parenting could ever account for the sheer love Dick holds in his heart. Bruce likes to think his pups were destined to be the best of Gotham—he knows they're the best of him.
Now and then, Bruce extends his authority as pack omega to ground his pups. It's different from the usual benching, in which his brood tends to choose defiance rather than listen to him; that's the equivalent of a mother cat nipping at her young. This is a direct order, a natural ruling that not a beta like Alfred would violate. This is carrying the kitten back to their den by the scruff of their neck and making it understood that they are not to leave again, or until she deems it safe to do so (no matter how old they are).
Bruce doesn't hide his omegan side, not anymore. His children don't ignore his propensities, not anymore, and not when they know he isn't taking a no from them. Yet they do indeed try.
"B, I said I'll be fine. It's honestly nothing."
"A concussion is not nothing, especially not one you hid from me." He isn't yelling. He rarely does. Instead, his words are even and mild. His pups have always liked how his voice is as gentle when scolding as with praising them. Inside these walls, they don't need Batman; they need Bruce—and they'll get him whether they want him or not because his word is law when he gets like this.
Dick puts his hands up placatingly, "I know, and I'm sorry for that, but it's only because I knew you'd freak out like this." His laid-back smile does nothing to ease his mother's worry, nor does it curb what's to come.
"Of course I would. You were just cleared after breaking your leg, and you come back with a concussion?"
"Okay, hurtful, sounds like you're insulting my skills—"
"Richard."
"Oh, no, please don't."
"I forbid you—"
"No, mom, I can heal up in Blud—"
"—from stepping out of this house—"
"Mom, seriously, I'm not a kid anymore—"
"—until I say you can." The look on Bruce's face is not one to be trifled with, and Dick's very aware.
"Always such a mother hen, aren't you?" Dick almost laughs at the omega's face, halfway between wanting to be insulted but knowing what he said is true. He sighs, quite dramatically so, stepping closer until he can drop his head down onto Bruce's shoulder. "Calm down, I bet all of Bristol can smell you right now," he complains, but contentedly stays still as his mother preens over him. The scent of sour, unripe blueberries and burnt coffee slowly turns normal when he has his son in his arms. Dick only pulls back when he can no longer smell the omega's distress.
"Where will I be serving my sentence, warden?"
The nest is where Bruce wanted them. A separate room acting as an amalgamation of items from each and every pack member—a place where warmth and safety are promised, where judgment takes no root, and the scent of care bleeds from every corner.
There's a Wonder Woman blanket spread underneath the heap of pillows, one of the only staples from Jason's childhood that he chose not to throw out after his return. Half of said pillows were bought by Cass on the day Bruce took her shopping for the first time, claiming the old ones were dated and flat. A stuffed bunny that migrates between Steph's bedroom and the pack nest has found itself in the nest for tonight. A couple of Duke's sweatshirts are littered across the space, which is most likely the reason he complains about having nothing to wear. Tim's shirt, one with a suspiciously familiar 'S' adorning the front of it—Bruce and Dick figure he's going to come snatch it up when no one's in the nest, which is a hard task, seeing as someone is always in the nest. Damian's left two lasting effects on the nest: his distinct, puppy scent pouring throughout the room, and shed fur from his various pets garnishing the clothes he's contributed to the slew of fabric.
It's where someone goes when they have a bad day, where Bruce will find them and ask if they want to talk. It's where Bruce spends his pack heat, where Alfred brings him herbal tea as the pups corral around in an attempt to soothe him with scents. It's where—
"—bad, little pups get sent by their mother when he's been very clear they're in no condition to patrol."
Dick rolls his eyes at being called a little pup. He thinks Bruce didn't see him.
"Your eyes will get stuck like that."
"Where have I heard that one before?" Dick jibes. A light tone is behind his words, not one of malice. He's always been one to indulge his mother's instincts, even ones other people would insist are bothersome.
His head rests on Bruce's lap. A movie plays softly in the background of their comfortable bliss as Bruce cards his hands through Dick's hair, twirling the length at the base of his neck.
"You need a haircut, chum."
"You say that every time I come over. " Dick is beginning to slur his words, exhaustion driven by the tranquil atmosphere around him that seeps into his bones—no doubt spurred by his head injury.
"And every time, you don't listen to me."
"I like my hair like this," he practically whines. The prior label of little pup doesn't seem so inaccurate when Dick's deep in a state like this.
Bruce hums in yielding, the sound reverberating like a lullaby to his son, and continues petting through thick locks. "Go ahead," he says knowingly, "You'll heal better with rest."
"I'm not even tired, mama," he argues, his face pressed against said mama's thigh. The hand combing his hair hitches in movement for just a second before recovering. Dick's on the brink of passing out if he's regressed to calling Bruce that.
He lets out a huff of air through his nose in what's supposed to be a laugh. "I give it ten minutes before you're snoring."
"You don't know that."
Yes, Bruce does, because Dick does this frequently. "I know everything."
He sees Dick's shoulders shake in silent, small laughter at the words. It's something from the alpha's childhood that was always said whenever Dick was a bit too inquisitive for his own good—when his questions went from a cute bonding moment to slightly annoying cynicism and a never-ending procession of 'Why?'s. The late-night calls his son has an affinity for make Bruce wonder if Dick still believes that he's some omniscient entity ("Mom, if I don't have milk, should I put water or coffee in my cereal?" was from last week.) Deep down, Bruce misses that time, long ago, when Dick looked at him like he hung the moon, but he's aware that the alpha is too old, too mature, too grown to think such things now ("Never mind, I found some milk. Is it fine if it's expired?" Bruce had told him to come over instead.)
Dick looks up at him, not as if he hung the moon. His eyes carry a sense of understanding, awareness that comes with growing up, that his mother is not the perfect person he thought him to be when younger. Dick knows that Bruce has made mistakes—still makes them—and knows they've fought and argued and said things they haven't always meant to each other. It was hurtful seeing Bruce with Jason and Tim, like he's finally perfected the craft after doing a trial run with his eldest. At least, that's how Dick used to think. He now understands that wasn't the case. He was a teenager, a teenage alpha at that, and was in a weird middle-state of being territorial over his mother while also wanting space from him. Bruce tried his hardest to understand that, yet no amount of parenting books can ever prepare someone for the real thing, for the real confrontations where one party had too much to say, and the other couldn't think of the right things to.
It was a difficult situation, with varying outside factors only widening the rift between them even further. Some things are goaded by nature. Dick gets that what happened to them was likely unavoidable and that they aren't the only ones who experienced that particular circumstance.
Dick doesn't know of all the times Bruce thought he failed as a mother when he decided to raise his son without an alpha in his life—a father-figure that could lead him through the changes he's going through and the confusing feelings rushing through him better than an omega could. He doesn't know that, and Bruce never wants him to know.
Dick doesn't look at him as if he's hung the moon. Hell, Dick doesn't even look at him like he hung the stars. But Dick looks at him as if he's sure Bruce would if he asked—if any of his siblings asked. Dick looks at him with the type of unconditional love only able to be galvanized when received in equal amounts. Dick looks at him with such credence because he's positive Bruce looks at him the same; it's love that can only come from family.
"Y'know, we laugh at you a lot for your tendencies—"
Bruce sighs, thinking Dick was about to ruin a sweet moment by bringing up his—what was it?—Mom Brain again.
"—but I've been with you the longest, so I know something the others don't. Or maybe they do, they just don't want to admit it." His words are more coherent, either from a burst of energy before inevitable collapse or because he's risen to a position where his mouth was no longer half-way smothered.
"Which is?"
Dick reverts to where he originally lay with a yawn, this time leaving an arm underneath his head to prop himself up. "We can't fall asleep without you. Do you notice how Jason always keeps one of your sweaters in his room? He thinks no one knows about it, but I do. He probably wakes up earlier to stuff it under his bed, so no one can catch him cuddling his mommy's sweater," Dick teases. Bruce would chastise him if he weren't so interested.
"He does that?" His heart melted at the thought.
"Yeah, he's too embarrassed to ask you for a hug before bed like everyone else. What a wimp," he snickers.
Bruce tugs at his ear in warning. "Everyone?" he asks, questioning these numerous hugs he's supposedly getting every night.
Dick's snickering turns into a quiet yelp, and he promises to stop insulting his brother, and yes, he knows he's too old to be acting like this. "Well, I hug you, and so do Cass and Steph. Dami just sneaks into your bed, then pretends like he didn't in the morning. Duke 'lets you' scent him after dinner since he goes to bed straight after," he puts up a single set of air quotes for emphasis. "Have you never realized why Tim always asks you to stay up after patrol?"
Bruce's brows furrow, "To debrief cases?"
"You'd do that anyway," he scoffs, "It's so you can do the same to him after. You've done irreparable things to us, mother!" Dick's attempted melodrama is cut off by an even bigger yawn.
"So dramatic," he tsks, sensing how tired his eldest has become. "Do you also steal a sweater from my closet when going back to Bludhaven?"
"Nah, 'm smarter," Dick tries to burrow deeper in the comforting scent enveloping him to no avail; still, he seems satisfied with where he lies. "I steal blankets fr'm the nest," he sleepily confesses.
"I didn't raise you to thieve, birdie," Bruce muses. His hands have gone from petting to slow, soft scratches.
"I always put 'em back. 'Sides, no one ever notices."
"Really?"
"Yeah, 'cept maybe Alfred."
Bruce noticed. He always has.
Just like he notices his missing sweaters that somehow end up in Jason's room and the dip in the bed when a certain pup comes to visit in the night. He notices the near-to-none reluctance from Duke when he fusses over scenting him. He notices when Tim asks him to stay for a bit longer after post-patrol showers and inches impossibly closer to where Bruce sits until his mother is simply overcome by the urge to pull him closer. He notices when the hugs from his girls linger longer than they reasonably should, but he doesn't pull away until they do. He notices when Dick goes back to his city with bags heavier than what he arrived with, and he notices the missing blankets that were precisely chosen to not raise any suspicion.
"A perfect crime, then."
It's his maternal predispositions—his Mom Brain. Bruce notices all of these things and allows them to happen because they remind him of the love that flows through each bond in his family. It reminds him that he's at the center of it all, and he internally vaunts at how he's caused this ardency to come into fruition.
Bruce wonders what his parents would think of his unusual family, and he can't help but imagine them proud and filled with fondness at the number of grandchildren they would be able to spoil. In his softest dreams, he imagines the two sides of his family—his parents and his children—all together and happy. Though it quickly spirals as he goes down a certain line of thought: of how his life would've unfolded had his parents still been alive. Would he have met a nice, gentle alpha to settle down with had he not been hell-bent on a mission of revenge turned protection? If so, he wouldn't have the children he has now—there would be no clinical visits and shopping for suitable donors, nor would there be orphaned children he meets along his course that reminded him too much of himself to turn away, and he would've never crossed paths with his past lover, Talia, who gave him his youngest treasure.
There was a time he would force himself out of these dreams as they became something less appealing. There was a time he would make himself forget the hypothetical asked of him by his subconscious: your parents or your children? There was a time when the mental decline he suffered from such a question wasn't worth the introspection.
But now, after all the years he's spent caring for these children? There is no doubt about what Bruce would choose. He doesn't live in the fantasy world he'd dreamt of. There are no what-ifs or maybes—this is the life he's been given, and he's done everything in his power to make it a life worth living.
"Mom?"
"I'm here."
"You 'member when we asked you which one of us spoke?"
Bruce hums a sound of confirmation.
"It was me."
"I know."
A minute passes.
"Remember when you insisted you've outgrown me?"
There's no answer. Dick made it to minute seven before drifting off. Bruce spends the other three simply staring down at him adoringly.
"Sleep well, my Robin."