Work Text:
Even after all those years of attending social events and having worked out a usually effective formula just how to get through them, Bruce still often catches himself wishing he was somewhere else. He doesn’t mind charity or fundraising events, but more elite galas, just like this one, tend to be exhausting. The reason is good -- celebrating a round anniversary of establishing Gotham’s police force; small talk with certain people -- less so. Or maybe he’s getting too old for that.
Bruce is in the middle of an extremely boring conversation with one of his business partners when he notices Dick creep closer, his stance far from relaxed. Making brief eye contact, Bruce slightly tilts his head to the side in question. Cape related?
Dick blinks at him and shakes his head in answer. Bruce is relieved, but excuses himself from the conversation all the same and comes to Dick’s side.
“Ugh,” Dick groans, unprompted, as he starts making a beeline for tables with snacks. Bruce walks with him, a little amused, and doesn’t have to wait long to hear the story. “Remember Jane Phillips?”
It takes Bruce a moment to realize who Dick is talking about. “She was a headmistress of the Gotham Academy for a short time while you attended, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, that’s her,” Dick confirms, glancing over his shoulder. “She cornered me around the drinks and started asking about my life. ‘I see you so rarely on these kind of events nowadays, Richard,’” he intones in a raspy voice that indicates Jane Phillips is a smoker. One of the guests glances at them funnily as they pass him. “I didn’t want to explain to her I had my fair share of those things while I was younger and I avoid them when I can now because that would be rude, but boy, wasn’t it tempting.”
They finally reach the table and Dick goes straight for small triangle sandwiches he used to devour as a kid. Some things don’t change, Bruce thinks with some fondness.
“Is that what made you upset?” he asks after a moment.
“’m not--” Dick starts, pauses to swallow. “Not upset. Just a little irritated. Then she asked about my date for the gala and somehow looked both scandalized and worried I didn’t have one. I decided to flee after that.” He blows with exasperation at some stray hair hanging over his forehead. “Honestly, why is that such a problem? It’s too early for me to get called an eternal bachelor like some of us do.”
Bruce pointedly ignores the jab at him and insteads risks asking, “If that bothers you, couldn’t you have asked Barbara? She’s here tonight anyway--”
“Don’t go there, Bruce,” Dick interrupts him, a harsh undertone of warning in his voice. Bruce squares his shoulders; he doesn’t want to argue right here and now, but they caused worse scenes in the past. And asking where Dick and Barbara stand with each other at an angle other than professional is always a little of a gamble. Surprisingly though, Dick takes a deep breath and waves a hand. “And it doesn’t bother me, it bothers other people.” He pauses, apparently thinking. “Next time I’m gonna ask Roy. If they wanna talk, better give them a reason to.”
Wisely, Bruce decides to bite back his own comment on that. He puts down a barely touched flute with champagne he’s been walking around since the beginning of the party.
“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” Bruce says then, his voice neutral. “I know you’ve become estranged from those events by your own choice.”
Dick used to be a ball of restless, barely contained energy during social parties when he was younger, but he took things in stride and his easy-going nature made it easier for him to get through them. It’s been many years and events since then, and Bruce knows Dick stepped down from attending in lieu of his siblings with no regrets.
“I know,” Dick answers, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I… wanted to, though. Kind of? I was also in the force, after all. Even if not in Gotham.” His gaze travels around the hall and a small grin shows up on his face. “Oh no, poor Commish.”
Bruce turns around at that and internally winces in sympathy; across the room, Jim Gordon is currently being flagged by three different reporters.
“Do you want to come to his rescue?” Bruce asks, arching an eyebrow. Jim seems to be holding his ground, obviously, but Bruce knows the man is even less fond of dealing with media in a suit rather than a trenchcoat.
Dick looks pensive for a moment, but it quickly passes. “Nah, I’m not that self-sacrificing. Besides, maybe he’ll get a chance to tell them about how the crime rate dropped by almost half a percent last year, and they will actually listen.”
Perhaps. Bruce pursues his lips for a moment.
“It’s not enough,” he says then, quietly. It’s not a bad result, he knows; it speaks for the combined efforts, it matters, and yet.
“It’s Gotham,” Dick says, sounding a little experasted. But he seems to sense Bruce’s mood because he continues, “It’s never going to be enough, not for you, but also not for the Commissioner and the police, or for us. So we won’t stop.” Even if maybe we should finally, is unsaid, but Bruce catches it as well. “Just take it for what it is. Small, but progress.”
It’s hard because Bruce never forgets his failures and rarely forgives himself for them. It makes it difficult to enjoy even small wins.
“Besides,” Dick adds, after exchanging polite greetings with on the guests, “if you came up to them right now, I guarantee you would be asked about your date for tonight, too. Or rather, lack thereof.”
“You think so,” Bruce replies dryly.
“Yeah. That’s what you get for creating your player look and then not living up to it.” Dick’s eyes gleam with mirth. “Couldn’t you have asked Selina, at least?”
Bruce shakes his head. “She’s not in Gotham right now. Trip to France, I think.” He’d rather not know the specifics for this one; there’s a chance he might have not liked it.
“Shame, truly.” Dick taps his chin, looking thoughtful. “Really though, you’re not getting younger, Bruce. Cultivating your playboy persona was bound to get tiring at some point. Brucie isn’t good for forever.”
He kind of can see Dick’s point, even if it stings a little. “And what do you suggest?”
“Oh, I have many ideas,” Dick answers, shrugging. “But to be honest? You should have went with billionaire single dad and made it your signature. I mean, it’s not even like you’d have try hard for that part.”
It makes sense, Bruce supposes. The whole family is revolving in social circles and media, more or less. It’d be a good, warming look for him, Bruce knows. And maybe that’s the thing, that it rings too true for comfort of a mask, even a social one.
“I didn’t expect for it to become a thing when I started out,” he says and knows his voice sounds a tad softer than usually.
Dick catches it; of course he does. There’s fondness in the curve of his lips as he answers, “Fair enough.” After a beat, he adds, “Besides, we’d probably have to go on some variety show and I can feel that not ending well.”
“Definitely,” Bruce agrees.
Dick nods. “Brooding not-playboy bachelor with a bunch of orphans it is.”
...
“What the hell was that, Bruce?”
Gritting his teeth, Bruce pulls down the cowl and turns around to face Jason who’s already taking off his helmet and ditching it on the motorbike. They’re the only ones in the Cave, so it’s fairly peaceful, but Bruce has a feeling it won’t last.
“I could ask you the same,” he says, some anger seeping through the cracks in his calm exterior. “You almost killed him, Jason.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a loss,” Jason replies, sneering. He pauses to take a deep breath. “That guy is a known abuser and rapist. Showed no fucking remorse even facing the big scary Batman. The streets would be better off without him.”
“He’s going to be in traction for five months, so I dare say you did take him out,” Bruce notices wryly. “But I needed information from him, he was our only lead on the case.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Jason calls, coming closer. “I told you,” he continues, jabbing his index finger into Bruce’s armored chest, “that my guy could get us intel, too, but you wanted to do it your way, so here we are now.” He smirks sharply, angrily.
Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t trust him--”
“Gee, that’s a new one, coming from you,” Jason cuts in sarcastically, curling a hand over his chest as the other moves to rub at his neck.
“He was in and out of prison for the past three years,” Bruce adds.
“Yeah, for getting into fights when he’s drunk, not… not kidnapping and selling kids,” Jason answers, his breaths coming short and heavy. His teal eyes bore into Bruce, refusing to back down. “What’s your deal, B? Are you so pissy because he’s one of my informants or is it because you refuse to believe someone from the Narrows can be useful?”
Bruce doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, but Jason just shakes his head and laughs. It sounds cold and strained.
“It’s both, isn’t it?” he questions, rubbing a hand across his chest. “You and your goddamn… double standards.”
Suddenly, Bruce has a deja-vu; he and Jason had this kind of talk a handful of times, back when Jason was Robin and barely came up to Bruce’s chest. It usually ended with a notable amount of yelling, Jason stomping off and Alfred giving them both sad, sour looks. It’s likely headed in the same direction right now and even if Alfred isn’t here at the moment, Bruce knows he will get the man’s fine share of disappointment later. Apparently, he and Jason just couldn’t go on too long without arguing.
It tires Bruce and he knows he sounds bitter, but he swears there was a time, maybe not long, definitely not perfect, but when he knew how to talk with Jason.
“Next time… don’t ask for my help… if you don’t fucking want it…”
Those words, or rather, the manner they were spoken in, finally prompt Bruce to actually take a closer look at Jason. He’s doubled over, hands on his knees and shoulders hunched as he tries to breathe properly, and can’t. A pang of old, almost forgotten fear sizes Bruce’s own chest for a second, but he’s already acting; he scoops Jason up in his arms -- and God, that isn’t as easy as it was almost ten years ago -- and carries him to the medical bay. After setting him on the table, Bruce pulls out an oxygen mask.
“Inhaler… won’t…” Jason tries.
“I know. Don’t talk.” Bruce puts the mask over Jason’s face and hooks it up to the oxygen tank. Then he starts searching through supplies; they’re always well-equipped, ready for different emergencies, but Bruce’s looking for something he didn’t need to use recently. Dozen or so seconds later, he finds corticosteroids. Bruce’s hands don’t shake as he fills a syringe nor as he injects the drug into Jason’s bloodstream, but they may as he sits next to his son and gently puts an arm around him, bringing him closer. And Jason lets him, leans into his side as they wait for the drugs to kick in.
After what feels like painfully long hours to Bruce, Jason lowers the mask and comments, “Way to go, old man. Give me a severe asthma attack.” His voice is weak, but his chest isn’t heaving for breaths anymore.
Bruce is silent for a moment, putting a few things together. “I noticed you weren’t at your best as we were working on the case, but I thought it was simply a cold.”
Jason chuckles. “No, just polluted, shitty Gotham air being a bigger bitch to my lungs than usually.”
Bruce feels himself frowning. “...I didn’t know you still had asthma,” he says after a beat.
“Well, I didn’t. Not when I came back, anyway.” Jason makes a vague hand gesture. “I think… Two months ago? I felt like something was acting up, so I went to Doc Thompkins and she set me up with a diagnosis. Again.” He shrugs. “It’s been a few years, I guess the Pit was a temporary fix for my lungs. Genes and shit, you know.”
Bruce stiffens at the mention of Lazarus Pit, but that’s not what he should be focusing on. He thinks back to when Jason was younger and first diagnosed with asthma shortly after he came to live at the Manor, and how it made Bruce hesitate in his decision to make Jason a Robin. Leslie assured them it wasn’t a bad case and in a healthier and steadier environment, Jason had good chances to grow out of it with age. An inhaler was a necessary addition in his utility belt, but it didn’t hinder Jason’s life as much as Bruce was afraid it would.
“Are you still smoking?” Bruce asks, trying to remember if he did see Jason with a cigarette in the last two days.
“...No.”
“Jason.”
“I’m on my way to quit, okay?” Jason holds his hands up. “Geez, it feels like I’m fifteen again. Before you ask, I have a new inhaler and meds, too. I’m thinking about redesigning my helmet for something with better filtration, maybe making the front semi-transparent and movable.” He sighs, nudging Bruce in the side with his elbow. “It’s under control. Don’t worry.”
“You should have told me, though,” Bruce can’t help but mutter.
“Yeah, well, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.” Jason waves a hand in his face. “Worrying, silent brooding, finding a way to make it your fault? Chill a little, Bruce.” He hops off the table and sways just slightly, but shrugs away Bruce’s attempt at help. “Just so you know,” Jason says, glaring at him, “I’m still pissed at you. But now I’m gonna bother Alfred in the kitchen, then take a nap -- and so you should, actually -- and in the evening, we’ll go and close this case.” He knocks Bruce on the chest with his fist. “Don’t you dare go without me or I’ll tell Tim you were the one who destroyed his external drive.”
“It was an accident,” Bruce protests.
“Tell that to his two hundred episodes of Stargate, old man,” Jason throws over his shoulder before heading away to the elevator.
And Bruce sighs, but the corners of his mouth twitch, just a little. Maybe they’re not totally hopeless.
…
Bruce can’t quite remember the last time he knocked on the door to someone’s apartment, let alone, one of his children’s. It’s rare of him to drop by, and if he does, it’s usually through the window, in a different kind of getup. Right now, though, he’s wearing casual clothes -- old but soft shirt and even older jeans, along with running shoes -- as he shifts a bag from one arm to the other, waiting for Tim to open the door.
He feels weird. He’s so not used to this.
Eventually, the door cracks open, almost hesitantly. “Bruce?” Tim asks or rather, croaks as he squints at him. It’s a habit that Bruce quickly takes him in and assesses -- from his messy mop of dark hair, through pale and sweaty face, to a blanket draped over his frame clothed in a hoodie and sweatpants. He both looks and sounds sick which is not much of a surprise as that’s the why Bruce is here -- and doesn’t that kind of make him sound bad?
“Tim,” he says and gives a tentative smile. It does nothing to assure Tim as he only squints at Bruce even further. “Can I come in? I’ve got Alfred’s food,” he adds, rustling the bag.
This seems to convince Tim to let him and he steps to the side. Bruce has been to this particular apartment just a handful of times; it’s in a rather run-down part of Gotham, being smaller and more open than what Tim usually favors. From experience, Bruce knows he prefers to hole up here when he’s working a tough case or wishes to be undisturbed, or both. Tim certainly didn’t expect anyone today.
Tim’s sock-padded feet softly follow him to the kitchen where Bruce doesn’t comment on a quite alarming number of take-outs and empty mugs, definitely after coffee. He stocks most of the food in a fridge.
“Would you like some of Alfred’s chicken soup now?” He turns to Tim who is standing by the table, watching him. At the question, his son snorts.
“I don’t know, can I trust you not to mess it up?” He coughs and clears his throat. “I mean, I still remember that tuna sandwich, Bruce.”
“Hgn.” Bruce remembers that one, too. There’s a reason why he’s banned from the kitchen at the Manor.
Tim sighs. “I will risk,” he says graciously and slumps in a chair. “But please, don’t start a fire or anything.”
Feeling a little hurt, Bruce goes about warming up the soup and searches through Tim’s cupboards for utensils. He succeeds, even finding a seemingly last clean mug in the whole kitchen. He’s pleased with himself for bringing Alfred’s tea of choice.
Once it’s ready, Bruce gives Tim a bowl of steaming chicken soup. Tim mumbles thanks and starts eating, apparently forgetting to check if it’s edible. Or he’s just that hungry, Bruce concludes, sitting at the other side of the table. He’s half-tempted to clean the dishes, but he doesn’t really know how this works, whether Tim will chew him one for it or not, so he just stays in place.
When Tim is done, Bruce slides the mug with tea across the table. Tim eyes it skeptically, raising an eyebrow as Bruce adds two pills next to it.
“That’s what you take when you’re sick, right?”
“Yeah,” he agrees and drags a hand over his face. “Okay, I have to ask. I didn’t call anyone because they’re all busy or off the planet, or whatever, so it’s not like they could sell me out. How did you know?” He peeks through his fingers at Bruce. “Oh God, I didn’t forget about some important WE meeting, did I? Tam said my schedule for this week was clear.”
Bruce wants to sigh or maybe kick himself, but he just says, “The patrol on Tuesday.”
“What about it?” Tim asks, confused.
“You had a sore throat. And the next day there was a sudden drop in temperature and it rained heavily, and you didn’t show up to the patrol since then.” Bruce pauses, watches his son. “It doesn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure it out.”
“Well. Right.” Tim scratches his cheek and wraps the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He frowns, looking at his tea. “I didn’t really think someone would put that together, it’s just a stupid spring cold I caught because, you know. No spleen.”
Yes, Bruce knows, and he feels stupid for not realizing it earlier. Tim has a tendency to make himself appear fine to others before actually taking care of himself. It’s one of his known vices.
And it’s not like Bruce -- forgets about it, he just sometimes doesn’t realize. How long Tim has been at his side. How he’s seen Bruce at, admittedly, his worst, after Jason’s death. After Bane breaking his back, the earthquake and no man’s land, the gang wars, the year away, the Black Glove. In moments when he’s honest with himself, Bruce doesn’t want to wonder where he’d be without Tim.
The fact that Tim lets Bruce help him now, during just a simple cold, means a lot. Even if he ends up grimacing a little at the taste of tea as he swallows the meds.
“You didn’t add sugar,” he accuses Bruce, who just blinks.
“You don’t sweeten your coffee and you don’t drink tea,” Bruce replies.
“Yeah, so?” Tim asks, a little defensive.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t actually have sugar, not at this apartment, at least,” he explains.
Tim frowns at his cup. “Actually, you may be right. Huh.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Tim slowly sipping his beverage as Bruce tries not to feel too out of place doing nothing. He eventually gives up and asks, “Do you mind if I do the dishes?”
After a moment of considering, Tim gets up, fixes the blanket over his shoulders and says, “I’m gonna get the stuff from the living room.”
Tim doesn’t want to lay down yet and so Bruce doesn’t press; they work side by side, Bruce cleaning and Tim drying off. It’s repetitive and calming in a way; even glancing through the window and seeing kids coming back from school and an open flower shop sets Bruce at peace somehow.
He hears Tim huff at some point. “What?” Bruce asks.
“Nothing, it just reminded me…” Tim sniffles. “When I was younger, our housekeepers always did the dishes or I did them myself if I needed to. After coming to the Manor, I remember being glad when I could help Alfred out.” Bruce knows what time Tim refers to; after Janet’s death, while Jack was in coma. “It sounds stupid now, like, it was such a mundane thing, but I genuinely enjoyed doing it with Alfred when he let me.”
Bruce smiles at that. “I think all of us did that at some point, when we were younger.”
“Yeah, he told me how you once had a fit of anger and shattered two plates from an expensive collector’s set, then felt bad about it and ordered a whole new one. Pretty sure everybody but Cass ended up breaking something from that set later.” Tim puts the mugs into a cupboard and sneezes. “I need to clean here one of these days. Thanks for help with the dishes, though.”
And Bruce takes it for what it is; not a dismissal, but rather a boundary to respect. He ruffles Tim’s hair and simply says, “You’re welcome.”
…
It takes Bruce a week after Cassandra gets back to Gotham to realize that she’s avoiding him. He’s aware she’s somewhere around almost constantly, both at the Manor and during patrols, but he finds no indication of her shadowing him from the corners, waiting to see when he notices and calls her out on it. She doesn’t actively seek him out; their interactions have been sparse so far and that’s something that ticks (worries) Bruce off.
One evening, he finds Cassandra sitting on a bench in the backyard, idly staring at the fallen leaves. Bruce pauses, knowing that he should be suiting up for patrol soon, but he decides to ask, “Can I join you?”
Cassandra tilts her in acknowledgment and Bruce sits next, noticing it’s getting colder with every day. Fall this year is pretty harsh and it makes him wonder if tough winter will make their job just a little easier.
“Did I--” he starts and pauses, pressing his lips together. Did I do something wrong is a question too loaded for Bruce to handle right now; besides, the answer is almost always the same. “Are you angry with me?” he settles on finally, looking ahead.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Cassandra tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear; apparently, she’s letting it grow longer again. She’s wearing the earrings Bruce gave her for birthday this year, the opal ones that belonged to his mother. Despite the circumstances, warmth blossoms in his chest, as it does every time he notices she’s wearing some of Martha’s old jewellery.
“A little,” Cassandra says eventually, like she’s struggling with the answer. “But mostly, I’m… confused, I think. And sad.”
“Why?” Bruce asks and before he can think better of it, he adds, “Has something happened in Hong Kong? Batman Inc. related or not.”
She shakes her head, once. “It’s just a city. Not like Gotham, but. A little similar. A little different.” Cassandra turns away from him just a fraction, but he notices; of course he does. “Do you-- when am I supposed to go there again?”
Bruce frowns. “You just got here,” he replies, not quite understanding. “Do you wish to go back there already?”
“I… don’t know.” Cassandra huffs and pulls her knees closer to herself on the bench. “I don’t mind travelling. Being there, protecting the city. It’s what you taught me.” She seems to be choosing her words carefully and Bruce lets her. “And I admit that sometimes… it’s easier to leave. Be on my own. Like I -- ran away from Cain. Like I left after what happened with Nyssa and the League, and Shiva.” When she exhales, Bruce can see the traces of her breath. “But things change all the time. Like then, when I came back here and you were gone. Tim and Dick, too. Left Gotham to Two… Dent.”
Bruce closes his eyes for a second. He knows there are things they still haven’t talked about. He realizes they should, but he’s afraid of this conversation. And it’s happening now.
“Back then, I did what I did because--”
“I know. I’m not upset about that… anymore.” She looks at him directly for the first time since he sat down. “You asked. And I want you to… understand. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says after a moment and oh, how wishes it was all that easy.
“After what Cain and Slade did, I was… so angry. Thought only about stopping them.” Cassandra’s mouth twists. He knows she doesn’t like to talk about that time. “But after all that, you still. Took me in again. Adopted me. It made me happy.” And Bruce commits this moment to memory, as a reminder that he didn’t imagine genuine affection in her voice. “And then you died.” She rests her chin on a knee and closes her eyes. He doesn’t correct her. “It hurt. And I couldn’t be here. While you were gone.”
“But regardless of the pain and your own feelings, you did what I asked of you,” Bruce says when Cassandra doesn’t continue. “About Batgirl.”
“I love Stephanie and she’s grown a lot since then. Made the uniform her own.” The corners of Cassandra’s mouth turn up in a sincere but bittersweet smile.
“She did,” Bruce agrees. “And so did you. And Barbara before you.”
“After everything that happened, things I’ve done… Almost done, thought about doing… I felt like I didn’t deserve to wear it anymore.” She sighs quietly. “I knew I… outgrew it. The mantle. I could feel it was time to move on. But giving it away, so soon after you… it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.”
Bruce grips the edge of the bench so tight his knuckles go white, but he remains silent, doesn’t trust himself to speak just yet.
“I like being Black Bat,” Cassandra says eventually. “I’m glad I can help you. Be your eyes and fists where you can’t. I know it’s a sign… of trust.” Her voice doesn’t waver, although that pause gives Bruce an idea. “I miss Gotham when I’m elsewhere. I like it here, but sometimes it feels… hard to breathe. Hard to be here. Even now, when you’re all here.” She rubs a hand across her eyes. “It’s stupid, I know…”
“It’s not,” Bruce protests resolutely. He turns to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. For the pain I’ve caused you, intentionally or not. For not being there when I should because I thought letting you handle it on your own was the right thing to do, and if I was there, it wasn’t in a way that you needed me.” He pauses to gather his thoughts. “I know that being Batgirl meant so much to you. I wish I handled some things differently.” Bruce takes Cassandra’s face in his hands and wipes the tears from the corners of her eyes. “I don’t regret taking you or any of your siblings in. I’m proud of you. You’re my daughter, but most of all, you’re your own person and you can decide how to live your life. You’ve done it so many times already. I just want you to know that you have home and family, and we’ll be here for as long as we can.”
Cassandra hugs him after that, buries her face in the collar of his jacket and almost squeezes the air out of him. She isn’t crying anymore, but Bruce thinks tremors going through her shoulders aren’t just because of the cold.
“We usually don’t talk a lot,” she says after a few moments, turning her head to look at him. “With words, I mean.”
It’s true; they don’t have to speak out loud to understand each other’s moves and plans. He thinks their understanding and teamwork in the field are on par with what he and Dick worked to achieve for many, many years. But it’s not everything there is.
“I suppose that’s why we should start,” he states.
Cassandra hums noncommittally and draws away. “I think,” she starts slowly, thoughtfully, “I’m gonna stay in Gotham. For now.”
“Alright.” Bruce tilts his head. “Do you want to --?”
She smiles. “Race you to the Cave,” she replies and a moment later, she’s gone from the bench. Bruce exhales heavily, shakily, before following after her.
…
“I can explain this, Father.”
Bruce crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “I’m sure you can, Damian.”
Taking Clark up on his invitation to come to the Kent farm for a few days seemed like a good idea at the time, especially now that Damian was on a spring break and Bruce felt like he could use some time away from business meetings. Predictably, Damian scowled at the idea, insisting there’s nothing interesting in Smallville and he’d much rather spend that time training and patrolling in Gotham, but in the end, the two of them drove here with no blood shed or bones broken. (Bruce considered it a success.)
Now, though, he was beginning to have second thoughts.
“I was trying to get a closer look at… Chester.” Damian’s nose scrunches up at the name of the horse standing just a few feet away from them. “I wanted to brush his mane and coat, and examine his horseshoes. I did approach him carefully, up front, but at the last moment, that imbecile -- Drake’s friend, it figures,” and that’s how Bruce knows he’s talking about Conner, “showed up out of nowhere, flew past us and startled Chester. I failed to maintain my balance and.” Damian pursues his lips with disgust and disdain, but Bruce isn’t sure if it’s directed at the whole world or just mud and horse excrement that are covering Damian’s clothes.
RIght, the smell.
“You need to take a shower,” Bruce tells his son and quietly follows after an angry-stomping Damian across the open field and inside the house. It’s empty right now; whatever Conner needed from here, he seemed to get it and leave, and the other Kents were currently elsewhere.
Damian goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself; Bruce is about to let him be, but one thing still doesn’t quite make sense, so he shuffles outside, hesitating.
“I know Martha told you you can approach all animals, but I thought you deemed Chester as somewhat… unworthy of your attention,” he says eventually.
He can hear Damian click his tongue from the other side of the door. “He’s not of a great breed, but I suppose he’s not so bad as for what Kansas has to offer,” he states, sounding a bit distracted. “Besides, I regret not having enough time to study horses as thoroughly as I’d have liked to when I was still with Mother. Practise is important in a vet school.”
And then he falls silent abruptly, as if just realizing what he said. Bruce blinks, surprised.
“Vet school?” he repeats, voice remaining level. “As in, veterinary?”
It sounds like Damian shifts from one foot to the other. “Can I take a shower in peace, Father?”
“Of course,” Bruce replies and decides to retreat to the kitchen for the time being. He’s still rather floored and confused, but he tells himself to wait patiently and settles for making coffee for himself and tea for Damian. Just then, he moves to the living room.
Around ten minutes later, Damian comes in, wearing clothes that Bruce is pretty sure are not his own. At his puzzled look, the boy scowls. “I do not wish to get more of my clothes so dirty. I was informed before that I can use the old ones.”
Bruce nods; of course Martha would do that, let Damian wear Clark’s old clothes, even if they’re not exactly a prefect fit. He observes as his son takes a seat in the armchair opposite of his and picks up his cup with tea. Damian takes a sip and gives a curt, affirmative nod, which means it’s not Alfred’s, but it will do. Bruce lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding.
“So. You want to become a veterinarian,” he starts because he’s really curious.
Damian stiffens for a moment before making a tt sound. “Just because almost everybody in this family seems to be incapable of actually going through with their higher education, it doesn’t mean I need to follow their badly-set example.” He pauses for a moment, before adding, “It’s not decided yet. Just an idea I consider and keep in mind.”
“Alright,” Bruce says and he gets a feeling he should end the conversation here and not push his luck. Instead, he continues, “I think you’d make a good veterinarian. It’s a lot of knowledge and work, though.”
Damian levels him with a do you know who you are talking to look. It’s effective; Bruce bites the inside of his cheek. And yet.
“And have you thought about an art school, perhaps?”
This makes Damian hesitate, but he covers it up by picking up his cup again. “I have, actually,” he answers after taking a long, practised sip. “Arts are a fine area, but I’m not sure if it’s something I’d like to pursue academically and professionally.”
Bruce nods; it makes sense. He knows being interested in something doesn’t need to mean you want to work with it. He experienced that first-hand in the past.
“Now, Father, would you tell me what was that… interrogation about?”
The question startles Bruce and he looks back to Damian, feeling confused once again. “I didn’t mean to pry or wrestle the answers out of you,” he says, slowly. “It’s just that you show some interest in what we’re doing at Wayne Enterprises, but you’ve never talked about what you’d like to do in the future and I didn’t think you’d actually…”
“Consider something so mundane?” Damian inquires, his tone challenging, but more than that, unsure.
“So normal,” Bruce clarifies and shakes his head. “I don’t mean it in a deprecating way, Damian. You can be whoever you want, be it a doctor, an artist, or an executive director.”
“Or Batman,” Damian adds, just on the right side of cheeky. Bruce chuckles.
“That’s not a career you can really advertise pursuing, as you’re well aware.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Damian speaks again, “I don’t think Mother would approve of these professions. Sans Batman, of course. And perhaps taking over the world and such.”
Bruce wants to say, I don’t think there’s a thing in the world that would make Talia happy at this point, but he knows better than to upset Damian. “You shouldn’t seek your mother’s approval while making that decision. Or mine, actually. It’s about what you’d like to do, Damian.”
“That’s strangely… unexpected of you, Father.” Damian glances at him. “I’m sure if Todd were here, he’d be prating about your controlling behavior and projecting.” And he wouldn’t be totally in the wrong, goes unsaid, but Bruce thinks he knows himself and his children just a little.
Settling more comfortably in the armchair, Bruce says, “I guess it’s never too late to try and break some of one’s less admirable habits.”
Damian narrows his eyes at that, still not fully convinced, but he doesn’t prod further and some of his uncertainty seems to dissipate. Bruce would dare to say he actually looks satisfied. “Well, I still have time to think about my options,” he states flippantly and proceeds to scratch Krypto behind ears, a clear sign that this conversation has ended.
(Bruce wonders if it’s too early to start collecting booklets for veterinary schools. Would it be too pushy? He needs to ask Alfred.)