Chapter Text
Bruce tapped in the numbers. He had three left to complete the puzzle and he knew what they were so it took no thought to type them in.
"Bruce."
Despite the way he coasted to victory, Bruce still felt the thrill of victory as his phone trilled at the completion of the sudoku puzzle.
"Really?"
He scrolled over to the next puzzle.
"You can't ignore me the entire time."
Bruce let out a noncommittal hum. This one was going to be challenging. Excellent.
"You're the one who agreed to therapy, Bruce."
"And you're the one who said I could do whatever I wanted while I was here," Bruce countered Dinah archly, jotting down the first number. They were in his room at the Manor, the large windows letting in the afternoon light and only the faintest sounds of construction. He was under a thin sheet, more because he liked the feel of it lying over his legs than for any real need for warmth.
The blanket also made it easier to justify being in his pyjamas. He could put on real clothes, had been in sweats and a t-shirt when the physiotherapist rolled by this morning, but he was exhausted enough when they were finished that he didn't want to dress only to have to change in a few hours, so pyjamas it was.
Besides, he liked wearing these. Dick had given them to him as a present.
With a roll of her eyes Dinah responded, "I said you could talk about whatever you wanted to and when you scheduled I assumed you wanted to talk about Clark."
Hands dropping into his lap Bruce clutched the phone tightly and straightened as best he could, which was difficult because he was still mostly bedridden and trapped in a brace. “Alfred is insisting I go over Wayne Enterprise holdings while I am ‘at loose ends’." He affected a grimace. As much as he knew this was Alfred dealing with his own anxiety, it was also a distraction from all the things he needed to be doing. Fixing Damian. Finding Cass 2.0. Or would she be the original? Helping his children work through the trauma of Superman beating the snot out of people in this family.
Not that Bruce had gotten the snot beaten out of him. He was just a little roughed up.
Dinah gave him an unimpressed look that reminded Bruce of Dexter after the cat had been shooed from his spot. "You booked a therapy appointment to dodge work."
“Self-care.” Bruce looked back to the phone. "Lack of stress is crucial for physical recovery. This is for my mental health. You’re the one who taught me that."
Dinah sighed. "This is superficial. You are going to have to talk about Clark. The League needs your input."
Bruce’s phone groaned under the pressure. It wouldn’t crack. He’d made it for, well, him. It could take one hell of a beating before it cracked. "My input is I don't care. Give him to Lex, mail him to Oa, leave him in a box for all I care."
Dinah ran frustrated fingers through her golden hair. "You know we can't do any of that."
Tapping in a number, then another, Bruce drew in deep meditative breaths before continuing. "Clark threw a car that had both my father and son inside. He tore a patch of Cass's hair and Dami couldn't leave his bed for three days."
"And he broke your back."
Bruce waved the comment away. "I've been injured before. He went after my children. Twice. I can't offer a reasonable opinion here. I can’t be Batman in this, only Bruce.” Their gazes met and Bruce tried to will Dinah to understand. She was a good den mother but she didn’t have any children of her own. She and Roy, she and clone Roy, had never been close.
"It sounds like you are angry."
"Dammit, Dinah. I can see what you are doing." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.
She sat in a chair by the bed, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m just making conversation.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, not fooled for a moment. “You’re trying to provoke me into discussing my feelings .”
Dinah sighed. “The last time you were in therapy you were far more cooperative.” She adjusted her position on the chair. “I do have better things to do than shelter you from your job, the one that pays you a six figure salary,” she said sternly, heat beginning to flicker in her tone.
Seven figure, but Bruce assumed that was not the way to steer this conversation.“How is Garfield doing?”
Dinah glared. “Don’t try to flip this on me.”
With a sigh Bruce tapped the side of his phone, killing the screen, and set it beside him on the bed. “Why don’t we just talk?”
With narrowed eyes Dinah answered, “That’s what I’ve been trying to do!”
Bruce shook his head. “No, Dinah, not as a therapist and patient. As friends. I could use a friend right now.” He sank into the mountain of pillows Alfred had given him, not masking the exhaustion he’d been struggling with, both physical and emotional. This had been harder than he wanted to admit. He didn’t want to think about Clark. About the League having a mixed response.
Maybe Alfred had the right idea, throwing paperwork at him. It kept his mind busy enough to not linger on such aggravating topics.
“Bruce,” Dinah shifted forward, reaching for his hand. He let her take it. “You have plenty of friends.”
Bruce scoffed. “I have coworkers, Dinah. And even then the only people who are talking to me are my traumatized children and my physiotherapist,” and, for some god forsaken reason, Lex fucking Luthor. The man kept trying to secure a visit to Bruce’s house to come ‘check up on an old friend.’ Bruce knew there were ulterior motives. There always were. What he didn’t know was what they were but looking into what Lex could possibly want gave Dick something to do. “I imagine you could use one too.”
Dinah’s mask fell away and she suddenly looked as tired as he felt. “So what do friends talk about?”
“Friends vent,” Bruce announced, like he was an authority on healthy friendships. The healthiest friendship he had right now probably was Dinah. Any civilian relationships were strained by lies and Diana was too angry at the League and at men in general to confide in. “So, how is Garfield?”
“Doing better,” she said, “which isn’t saying much. The person who would help him the most to get over this would be M’gann...”
“-But M’gann is off limits because she’s too dangerous,” Bruce finished. He didn’t know where J’onn had taken the girl but if he ever saw her again it would be too soon.
Dinah nodded and then leaned back, touching both her temples with one hand. “I didn’t see it, Bruce.”
“No one did,” Bruce argued, trying to soothe the guilt.
She scoffed without changing position. “I was there the most, after Red Tornado, and he’s a machine.” Apparently Bruce could assuage Dinah’s guilt as well as he could his own. “It was up to me to watch for these things, to notice them, and I didn’t. The damage she could have done.” Her hand shifted to cover her face.
“It was minor and J’onn has already repaired it.” Conner’s mind had mostly self repaired the holes she’d tried to leave and a few members of the Team had light suggestions for liking and trusting M’gann more than they naturally would, which might have even been subconsciously planted by the alien girl. Bruce suspected it was why no one looked too deeply at her and Conner’s sudden breakup.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Dinah snapped, before dragging her hand down her face to leave it resting in her lap. “We pride ourselves on protecting the world and we can’t even keep our kids safe.” Her hair rippled as she shook her head in self disgust. “How many times have we failed them? Roy is dead. The only reason Kaldur and La’gaan are not is because apparently you can ignore the space/time continuum without consequence.” That was Tim. Bruce still wasn’t sure if he should be proud of Tim for his casual relationship with reality or if he should lock the boy away in a cell until he learned not to play with the building blocks of the universe.
Bruce firmly squashed the voice that pointed out that he was a bit of a hypocrite.
Dinah let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know where Roy, other Roy, the Roy I met, is.”
“He’s around. He called Dick the other day.” After Bruce had tracked him and Cheshire down for yet another job. He knew he wasn’t a bad client. He nagged Roy to call Dick and had difficult jobs but he paid well and half upfront. Plus Cheshire liked a challenge. This time they were looking into whether or not Cass existed here. Bruce was torn between needing to rescue her and hoping there was no one here to rescue.
Cass was still largely a mystery but one look at the scars on her body spoke of a childhood filled with abuse and suffering.
“That’s good,” Dinah slumped. “That’s good. Thank you for knowing that. Oliver fucking doesn’t.”
“Are you two...speaking again?” Bruce asked hesitantly, poking carefully to see if there was a boundary there. He knew he was getting close to issues where Lois would cut off his nose.
“I wish I was gay.”
Bruce blinked at the non sequitur. “What?”
Dinah flipped her hair back once more. “Gay. A lesbian. Interested in women. It would save me the hassle of being in love with his dumb ass.” She huffed. “I’m so angry over him with that bullshit he pulled with the League and with how he’s treating Roy, but I get it and that makes it worse. ” Bruce was almost able to watch as the headache descended upon Dinah. “He looks at Roy and sees the face of a boy he got killed and didn’t even realize. I can’t imagine the guilt but it’s not Roy’s fault. ” She shook her head in disgust. “And I understand that he and Clark are founding members and have that whole ‘brothers in all things’ attitude, but Clark betrayed the League and Oliver needs to accept that, needed to accept that when it first happened. Maybe then we would have really been able to do something against Clark without the situation becoming this mess.” She waved a hand as though trying to encompass the enormity of the situation. “Our public relations team can’t decide whether to be thrilled with the hours they are clocking or to murder the League in our sleep.” With a thoughtful frown she studied Bruce. “How has the media been on your end? I haven’t been paying attention to the Gotham papers.”
“Unrelenting,” Bruce said bluntly. “It’s been a fun combination of questions from why Superman attacked us, to Tim’s sexuality. Someone sold the families’ numbers to a reporter so we’ve all been bombarded with phone calls. Tim’s pulled all the SIM cards until I can change phone companies and this time put the account under Alfred’s name so my eight year old son doesn’t have the opportunity to threaten to disembowel Vicky Vale again. Tim did a soundbite on how lucky he is to be accepted by his family to kill the story. Dick’s been a champion. He’s got a strong enough social media presence that he’s been able to mitigate some of the fallout by posting memes .” Bruce wrinkled his nose before he sighed. “You’re right. We aren’t doing enough to protect our children.”
“At least you got yours out of the game,” Dinah offered him.
Bruce held his hand horizontal and tilted it from side to side, a gesture he had picked up from Jay. “I can’t stop Dick. The only reason he’s not out hopping rooftops right now is because he’s having an emotional crisis over Clark.”
“Just like you?”
“No.” Bruce was not having a breakdown over Clark. Not yet anyway and he had enough sudoku puzzles to hold off on that for a while and hopefully once the puzzles were done he would be back in his batsuit and otherwise occupied.
“You know you can’t just repress this by running around as Batman, right?”
Dammit Dinah. “Repress what?”
“Bruce.” Dinah’s exasperation was punctuated by a quirk of her lips but any response she could have was interrupted by a soft knock.
“Come in,” Bruce called, already knowing it was Alfred. Sure enough his butler walked through holding yet another thick sheaf of papers. Though, curiously enough, he was followed by Dick.
Oh no. Distract. “Hello, Alfred. Dinah and I are in the middle of a very fruitful therapy session-”
“Which will have to be resumed at a later time,” Alfred said firmly. Drat. “I do apologize for the interruption, Miss Lance, but something has arisen that requires Master Bruce’s attention. Master Dick will escort you out.”
Bruce raised both his eyebrows in surprise at Alfred’s unusual abruptness. He didn’t just throw guests out willy nilly, especially not guests who he actually liked, and he definitely liked Dinah. He said she was a steadying influence on Bruce. Dinah cocked her head, obviously picking up on how out of character this was. Bruce just shrugged. “Thank you for that talk,” he said.
With a nod Dinah stood, accepting her cue to leave. “Anytime, Bruce. You have my number.” She stood and smiled at Dick. “So how have you been?” she asked, following him out of the room.
Bruce didn’t catch Dick’s response as Alfred closed the door. “I am dreadfully sorry for the interruption, Master Bruce, but I felt that this was a matter best brought to your attention immediately.” He held out the papers grimly.
Bruce took them, finding himself sliding into being Batman. It wasn’t a newspaper, thank god, but that only meant Vale wasn’t involved. Was it gang related? Guns? Drugs? Or maybe a Rogue was up to something.
He studied the page, noting that it was a list of phone numbers. It was a list of phone numbers on a bill. A bill with his name on it. “Alfred,” Bruce looked away from the bill back up to his father figure, “why am I looking at my phone bill?”
Alfred huffed in exasperation. “I thought it was your spine that was injured, not your eyes.”
Ow. That stung. Bruce frowned and looked back down. Oh. Okay, it wasn’t for his phone number; it was the landline. And...and one of his kids had made a phone call to England every five minutes for an entire hour.
What on Earth?
Bruce grabbed his own phone and searched up one of the numbers. Constantine, J.
Oh no.
He searched up the next one. Constantine, Jon.
Constantine, John.
Constantine, Jonathan
Constantine, Johan
Bruce made a pained note in his throat before looking up at Alfred who looked entirely unsympathetic. “Ah, the things children get up to.” There was an undercurrent of satisfaction, as though Bruce had been such a hellion that he deserved this kind of karma as an adult.
He hadn’t been. He had been an angel as a child. And hadn’t broken anything, well, much, in his journey to become a crime fighting machine.
Okay, maybe it was a little karma.
Bruce slumped. “Please fetch my children.”
“Right away, Master Bruce.”
“And don’t be so smug!”
“Of course not, Master Bruce.”
-
Tim dragged a lazy finger along the silver scar in Conner’s thigh. “Does it hurt?” Bruce had warned them that the wound would likely scar but hearing and seeing a permanent mar in Kryptonian skin was throwing Tim for a loop.
They sat curled together, Tim’s head against Conner’s chest and his body half wrapped around him, both of them in nothing but boxer shorts as they rested on Conner’s bed.
Conner snorted, the arm he had around Tim’s back giving the boy a tight squeeze before relaxing. “You know how scars feel.” Tim felt Conner trace his thumb against the scar from his surprise splenectomy.
“That one pulls,” Tim admitted. The tissue was tight and while Tim rubbed in oils to try and loosen it there was only so much he could do without going in for professional treatment. Treatment where he would have to explain just how a Wayne heir had been shish kabobed.
“I’m fine.” Conner shifted to place a kiss in Tim’s hair. “We’re fine.”
“Mm,” Tim hummed and shifted closer, revelling in the lavish luxury of skin on skin contact. He hadn’t been touched often as a child and could easily count the number of hugs his parents had given him on his fingers. Other Dick, for a while, had been a source of the tactile experience but those hugs had always been emotional; usually based in the fear of a near miss. Even when they weren’t everything about the hug had been dictated. How tight, how long, and what position they were in had always been set by Other Dick. This slotting together to find a natural balance was new.
New and amazing.
Everything about his relationship with Conner felt new and amazing.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Conner murmured.
Tim sniffed in mock offense. “I am thinking at the perfect volume.”
With a huff, Conner shifted and spun, his hands catching Tim’s wrists as he gently pinned him to the bed. “Then you were thinking about the wrong thing, because now you have been captured by your nemesis.”
With a shift in balance and a bit of fancy knee work it only took seconds for their position to flip. “It looks like our positions have been reversed. It’s the hero’s turn to win today.”
“Oh? Are you going to punish me?” Conner waggled his eyebrows as he spoke and Tim snickered before leaning down to capture Conner’s lips. It was a long kiss but as chaste as always. The pressure was still something Tim was getting used to, something he hoped he would one day find as normal as Conner seemed to, but the way Conner pushed into it was thrilling.
“You two are being disgusting, again, ” came Bart’s disapproving voice.
“Dammit, Bart!” Conner grumbled as Tim startled, rolling and nearly falling off the bed.
“I know, I know,” Bart held his hands up by his chest, pushing against something invisible. “‘Romance isn’t weird,’” he quoted, his nose wrinkling to demonstrate that he really didn’t believe Conner when he said that.
Tim kept silent during those talks because, well, it was a little weird. It just wasn’t bad weird.
Tim sighed and reached for a shirt, knowing the mood had been utterly broken the moment their privacy had.
“If you two just fucked you might get over this,” Bart advised. He dodged a pillow that was thrown with a bruising force.
“This is why you got left in the past,” Conner snarled as he reached for his own shirt.
“First off, rude,” Bart sniffed. “Second, I am here to do you two a favor. Alfred is rounding everyone up for a family meeting.”
“Shit,” Tim slid into his jeans with a little more urgency. “Thanks, Bart.” Alfred wasn’t disapproving, at least not anymore, but Tim was only willing to push the old man so far and he figured half naked time under Alfred’s roof might be pushing it.
Just as he slipped on his hoody there came a knock at the door and Bart raised his eyebrows at the pair as if to say see?
“Master Kent, are you in here?”
“Yes, Alfred,” Conner called, fixing his hair as he stumbled his way to the door. He’d been doing that a lot; stumbling. Tim wasn’t sure what was up. It happened too often for it to be just nerves.
He opened the door quickly and Tim could see Alfred’s eyes narrow as his gaze flicked from Tim to Conner, but whatever suspicions he had bled away when he spotted Bart. “Master Bruce has requested a meeting in his room. I ask that you attend post haste.”
“Of course,” Tim said with a nod of his head.
“Very good, sirs,” Alfred returned the head bob before closing the door to hunt down the rest of the family.
Conner put a hand over his heart. “I take back every bad thing I have ever said about you, Bart.”
“Alfred isn’t that scary,” Tim promised, giving Conner an awkward pat on the head.
“He is,” Bart chimed in. “He has a shotgun full of kryptonite-” Conner let out a whimper- “and, hey! You say bad things about me? Mode, dude.”
“It’s an expression,” Tim waved Bart over and grabbed both Bart and Conner’s hands. “Come on you two. Let’s not keep Bruce waiting.”
“Aren’t you nervous?” Conner asked as Tim steered him through the doorway.
Tim laughed. “No. I haven’t done anything stupid in weeks.”
“Are you sure?” Conner asked sceptically and that hurt. It really did.
“Yes!”
“Yeah!” Bart jumped to Tim’s defense. “Tim never does anything stupid.”
Conner looked at them both and snorted.
-
Jason stood in front of the mirror, holding the dress under his chin. It was one of Cass’s, way too small to fit his broad shoulders but not so tiny that he couldn’t imagine himself in it. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
Nothing clicked. There was no angel choir while light fell down from the heavens, but he also felt no need to toss the dress across the room and change into a camo wife beater and head to the gym to prove his testosterone levels were high. It was a nice dress, Jason could rock it, and if it fit he would probably be rocking it right now.
But he wasn’t a girl. He knew that. And as much as he was trying to blame dying he’d always known he wasn’t a guy. Just, being non-binary sucked because it was all about crossing off answers instead of circling the correct one. Maybe he was genderfluid? But he never really felt pulled one way or another?
This was Tim’s fault. Jason had been doing a great job of just not really thinking about it until Tim came out and then Jason was all up in the Pride Centre and of course, like a dumbass, he had grabbed some pamphlets for himself and now he had to actually think about his identity.
Ugh.
This not being cis thing was utterly exhausting .
Wait. Did this also make him gay?
Fucking labels.
There was a knock at the door and Jason crumpled the dress up and stuffed it under a couch pillow. “Coming!” he yelled, darting across the room to open the door. On the other side stood Cass.
“Meeting,” she said gravely. “Bruce’s room.” Straight to the point. Jason liked that about her.
“When?”
“Now.”
“Okay,” Jason agreed, but as he went to step out of the room Cass barred his path. “Hey Cass? What’s going on?”
Her eyes narrowed at him and flicked to the couch. Jason could feel pricks of sweat developing on his back? Did she know? Was she gonna kick his ass? As much as he hated to admit it, Cass could definitely kick his ass.
“Dress” she snapped. Okay, she definitely fucking knew. Jason stayed frozen, waiting for the blow that never came. Instead Cass huffed and flicked Jason in the forehead. “Hang. Wrinkles.”
“Oh,” Jason said with a swallow. “Wrinkles.”
Cass nodded. “Wrong colour. Later. Try more. Later.”
Well, that wasn’t the worst way to take it. Jason felt his chest loosen from tension he didn’t know he’d been holding.
So now he had two people who knew and two people who were on his side. This was good.
This was great.
-
“Move,” Dami demanded of the cat.
I don’t think he’s going to move.
“He will move or I will make him move.” No one got in the way of the Son of the Bat.
That didn’t work last time.
Dami snarled. He didn’t need the reminder of the cuts on his hands. “Last time I did not draw a blade.”
I am not stabbing a cat!
“That cat ,” Dami said through gritted teeth, “is standing on my means of restoring you to flesh.”
The phone book isn’t going to make me human again.
Before he had learned that this knife was some enchanted child, Dami would have forgiven it for not having a brain. Now that he knew different it was all he could do to stop from scoffing scornfully. “The person I can contact in the phone book is who is going to make it so you can stop bothering me. ”
He got the impression of the sword sighing. I appreciate you trying to help but I don’t think who you are looking for is in there. We have been at this for days and you haven’t found this great magician. Maybe he’s dead.
“He isn’t dead.”
Unlisted?
That...was a possibility Dami hadn’t considered. “Nevertheless, I shall pursue the matter to the best of my abilities. Now Cat, remove yourself from the phonebook.”
Dexter began to clean a paw.
Dami was starting to reconsider his desire to have a pet for himself. Not even Timothy was so contrary as this beast had decided to be today.
“Master Damian?” Pennyworth called as he glided into the room.
Dami popped up from where he had hidden himself from behind the couch. Had it been anyone other than Pennyworth he would not have revealed his location, but Pennyworth was uncanny and likely already knew Dami was there.
Though, given the way his eyebrows pinched he was at a loss as to the why. Excellent. Dami did not need questions that he could not answer.
Literally.
It was indeed the most frustrating part of the spell. Had he been able to, he would have likely requested help as he currently did not have the appropriate manner of tracking down a sorcerer. Going through the phone book was tedious and Dani was tired of peasants hanging up on him as though he would stoop to playing sick juvenile pranks.
"Yes, Pennyworth?" He said imperiously. He had no reason to feel guilty. He was being industrious with his time, not wasteful.
"Your father has requested your presence. His room."
"Thank you, Pennyworth." In a moment of genius Dami picked up a hissing Dexter and kicked the phone book under the couch. The cat flexed his claws threateningly into Dami's shoulder but even if he escaped, Pennyworth being able to see the cat provided him with his necessary alibi.
But after a moment of displeasure, Dexter settled into the boy’s arms, allowing Dami to carry him to Father's room. The conversation would likely be chastising, and Dami suspected the target would be Timothy for failing to take care of his own health again, or Grayson for wrecking yet another piece of antique furniture. He had stopped patrolling but he had not stopped his ridiculous flips.
They now just happened indoors.
Either way Dami was safe because he knew how to operate in the utmost secrecy.