Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“That’s how you know you’re home, I think, no matter how far you’ve gone from it or how long you’ve been in some other place. Home is where they want you to stay longer.”

― Stephen King, Revival

The grandfather clock clicked softly as the cave doors slid open. Bruce Wayne stepped inside, heavy boots quiet against the polished floor. He’d just taken off his cowl when Jonathan Crane rounded the corner from the study, adjusting his glasses and arching a brow.

“Well. You’re awfully late,” Crane said lightly, the kind of tone that usually preceded sharp observation.

“Busy night,” Bruce answered, his usual gravel softened by exhaustion.

Jonathan hummed, strolling closer with his arms crossed. “Thought you weren’t going out tonight?”

Bruce gave a noncommittal grunt.

Jonathan sucked his teeth. “Dinner is in the fridge. I wouldn’t let Alfred toss it out or feed it all to Ace.”

Bruce nods as he slowly adjusts his glove.

Which, of course, only made Jonathan’s smile sharpen. He tilted his head, voice velvet and deceptively sweet. “…what’s under the cape?”

“…is this a trick question?”

Bruce hardly shows any emotions, yet when his right brow twitches and he shifts his weight to seem relaxed—this was no different from a guilty dog caught digging into the garbage. The same exact kind of stillness Bruce got when he was hiding something.

Jonathan kept smiling, though his teeth were set. “Bruce.”

No movement or reply.

Jonathan groaned and took off his glasses to run a hand down his face.

“Bruce, you already have one—”

“Not sure what you’re referring to—”

“I am pretty sure it’s a crime at this point.”

“Not with the right lawyers—”

“Bruce!”

Finally, the man let out a defeated sigh. Deep. Long-suffering. And Bruce, with all the reluctance of a man opening a bill, shifted his cape aside.

Jonathan blinked. Then put back on his glasses.

Clinging to his leg was a small, dirt-smudged child with tangled hair. Likely malnourished so he can’t pinpoint an age. But particularly the black hair and wide blue eyes is what got his attention.

Damn it, Bruce. Is this going to be a trend?

“…He was trying to steal my tires,” Bruce muttered.

The child hugged Bruce’s leg tighter.

And just like that—Jonathan melted. Whatever lecture had been brewing died instantly. He crouched down slowly, leveling his gaze with the boy’s. His voice softened in a way when around Dick.

“Hello,” Jonathan murmured, as though speaking to something fragile. “What’s your name, little one?”

The boy’s grip on Bruce’s leg tightened, but he mumbled into the fabric. “…Jason.”

“Well, Jason,” he said warmly, “In the mean time, don’t we give you a nice bath, some clean clothes… and how does steak sound? I believe we can warm up some dinner.”

Jason’s head popped up at that, eyes sparking with sudden interest. He let go of Bruce immediately and hurried toward Jonathan, small hand slipping into his without hesitation.

He looked back at Bruce—whom looked betrayed that the boy left him so easily—brow scrunching. “What about him?”

Jonathan gave the faintest roll of his eyes and ruffled Jason’s hair. “Don’t worry. He’ll join us after he takes a shower… and a long nap on the couch and a short call.”

Bruce frowned. “The couch—”

“And reflects on his choices, preferably ones that don’t involve kidnapping.”

“The couch doesn’t have anything to—”

“Say ‘bye-bye, Bruce!’”

Jason grinned, quick and bright. “Bye-bye, Bruce!”

Jonathan’s smile widened and guided Jason toward the elevator. Hand protective around the boy’s shoulder.

Then as the doors slid shut with a soft hiss. Jonathan sharply glared at Bruce.

Left alone in the cave, Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, cape dragging against the stone floor as he exhaled heavily.

“…short call…shit. Computer. Call Dick.”

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“YOU WHAT???!!”

Chapter Text

The sound of the Batjet’s engines still echoed off the cave walls when Jonathan found himself in the middle of another ridiculous squabble.

“Move over, Dick.”

“Jason, you literally elbowed me first—”

“Because Tim started it!”

“I was just pointing out you can’t use nunchucks and a crowbar in a sparring exercise, that’s—”

“Boys,” Jonathan snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice cut clean through the chaos like a scalpel. “Behave. Your father is coming home.”

Jason leaned toward Tim with a smug grin. “B’s in deep shit.”

Jonathan’s head swiveled. “Language.”

“Aw, come on, Doc—”

But Jonathan was already stalking across the cave toward the jet, muttering to himself. The landing hatch hissed, lowering slowly to reveal the familiar silhouette, cape and cowl framed in smoke, followed by a hiss of hydraulics as the Batjet’s ramp lowered.

Jonathan, still clutching his phone, marched toward it with purpose.

“Bruce Wayne, I swear if you think you can vanish for a week without a word—and no further words!—waltz back in here, and—”

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing as the cowl came into view. Something in Bruce’s posture made him falter. He wasn’t just tired—he was doing his fucking guilty dog impression again.

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “…What did you do?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Instead, the sound of small, steady footsteps carried down the ramp. A boy emerged, no older than twelve, posture stiff and aristocratic. His chin lifted, green eyes sharp as a blade.

“I am Damian,” the boy announced, voice ringing with confidence beyond his years. “The sole heir and blood-son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce Wayne.”

The cave went still.

Jason choked. “No fucking way.”

“Language,” Jonathan muttered automatically—then froze. The words sank in. His gaze snapped to Bruce. His lips parted in shock, then curved into the slow, dangerous smile.

“There’s already three, Bruce. Three!” He held his fingers up for emphasis.

“I know. I swear I didn't know—”

“…Bruce I don’t like the sound of that—why is it worded in that way?”

“John—” Bruce started, already cringing.

With a sharp assessing gaze he examined the boy whose features does seem to fit Bruce’s checklist—these features were slightly too familiar. Biologically familiar to a certain someone’s baby pictures.

Oh.

Oh?

Jonathan hummed a silent “not now, Crow.”

The cave fell silent. Even Jason shut his mouth.

Jonathan crouched slightly, eye-level with the boy. “…Hello, Damian. I’m Jonathan.”

The boy stared. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“No,” Jonathan murmured. “You’re not frightening. You’re twelve.”

Before Damian could respond, realization crashed into Jonathan like a steel beam. He straightened slowly, head turning toward Bruce. His smile was sharp and sickly sweet. “…Bruce.”

Bruce stiffened further. “…Yes, John?”

“Talia?”

Bruce flinched.

Jonathan’s grin widened, but his eyes stayed cold. “Care to elaborate? Before I sick Crow on you?”

Jason muttered, “Ohhh shit,” and took two more steps back, pulling a confused Tim into his side.

Bruce held his hands out, desperate. “Wait—no—it was done without my knowledge.”

Jonathan’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Sperm does not live forever, Bruce.”

“I—I don’t know what she did,” Bruce tried, shoulders tightening. “But I promise you—whatever I had with her was years ago. Long before—”

“Oh?” Jonathan cut in, sharp. “So seeing her again didn’t spark anything?”

“No.”

“No?” Jonathan pressed with a false concerned look.

“No!” Bruce barked, panic in his tone.

Jonathan just stared at him, unreadable. Then he turned crisply on his heel. “Let’s go, boys. You too, Damian. Let’s give your father some time to get his lies together into a coherent story.”

Bruce reached out. “John—”

“Silence, you animal,” Jonathan snapped, not even looking back. “Before I use your corpse as fertilizer for Phil.”

Turning around, with a low voice, “I’ll spar with you later.”

The elevator doors closed with Jonathan and the boys inside. Damian followed without hesitation, as though sensing danger and already aligning himself with Jonathan’s side.

Bruce stood alone in the cave, cape heavy at his shoulders, sighing into the empty space.

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“Dad?” Tim squeaked as he clung his arms around Jonathan’s legs.

Aw…hug the baby!

Jonathan chuckled at Tim’s manipulative cuteness, and petted the boy’s head.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is Crow going to kick Bruce’s ass?”

Jonathan gave a pointed look at Jason who held his hands up and mouthed ‘don’t look at me!’ Dick looked away and looked very interested in the wallpaper. Damian had a little furrow of his brows as he watched.

“Mmm, we’ll see. Why? Does that bother you?”

Tim shook his head.

“No, father needs his ass kicked every once in a while!”

Crow’s bark of laughter echoed in his head then softly took the reins for a moment.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll kick his ass to next Tuesday if I have to!”

Jonathan groaned and hugged the child who’s eyes sparkled after realizing he had Crow’s attention. The other boys stiffened but were also intrigued with shiny eyes. Damian on the other hand looked from his new brothers to Jonathan in puzzlement.

“Don’t play too rough.”

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I promise I won’t hurt your boy-toy.

Shut up.

Another cackle.

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