Chapter Text
Bruce, in the span of a day, went from having two children to having five. That’s not too big of an issue — he has enough room for a dozen more, and enough money to make sure no kid of his will ever go without. Damian and Duke are getting along better than they have in years, Tim seems to flourish when given even the tiniest bit of attention, and Jason is getting on swimmingly with Alfred.
Bruce is not so sure about his new youngest, however. The boy — the talon — has a fondness for quoting creepy poems about death and the upper crust and little birdies. Bruce is not exactly sure what to do with him.
He has also attached himself to Duke, following him around like a duckling. That is, if ducklings were genetically modified six-year-olds capable of murdering a man in a hundred different ways.
Regardless, Bruce has not had a moment of peace and quiet for days — which is why he is more than a little annoyed when Damian barges into his office. He loves his son, really he does, and he’s so proud of the man Damian is becoming. But he would really appreciate it if the boy learned to knock.
“Yes?” he asks.
“You need to come downstairs,” his eldest says. “It’s the talon.”
Bruce almost vaults out of his office chair. Yes, the talon is tiny. But he’s still a trained assassin, and Bruce left him alone with three vulnerable children.
Bruce rushes downstairs, Damian trailing after him. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting — probably blood and knives and broken children he was supposed to protect.
But that’s not what he sees. Jason, Tim, and Duke are all in the front entryway, unharmed. They’re staring up at the ceiling, where the talon is balanced precariously on a hundred year old chandelier worth more than most small homes.
His short-lived relief that the human children are fine is quickly swept away by the sight. Bruce feels the stress take a dozen years off his life. Sure, talons are near invulnerable. But “near” doesn’t mean completely, and the talon is still baby-shaped.
He can tell his other kids are worried too. Tim is picking at his cuticles hard enough to draw blood and Jason's pallor reminds Bruce that the kid has already watched someone he care about die. (Bruce won't admit it, but sometimes he hates this city.)
“Can you come down?” Duke, the resident talon-whisperer, calls up.
The talon shakes his head. “Swing.”
True to his word, the talon swings forward on the chandelier. The lights bounce with the movement. It would be almost pretty, if Bruce wasn’t seconds away from a heart attack.
The talon grins, letting go with one arm to gesture to Duke. “Swing?”
“Uh, buddy, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Duke says. He casts a furtive glance around the group and realizes that none of the actual adults — aka Bruce and Damian — have any way to get a tiny assassin down from an heirloom chandelier. Neither do Jason or Tim, who are both watching in a mix of awe and horror. “If you come down you can have some blue M&Ms!” Duke says.
Bruce grimaces. Alfred is not a fan of junk food in the house. But, he supposes, the ends justify the means.
The Talon tilts his head to the side, considering. Then, in a move that knocks another couple years off of Bruce’s life, he flips off of the chandelier, spinning twice in the air, before landing on his feet in front of Duke.
“M&M” he says very seriously, holding out a hand for the candy.
Duke takes his outstretched hand, putting it in his own. “Let’s go to the kitchen, where there are M&Ms and there are not any chandeliers.”
The talon nods his assent, hand swinging between him and Duke.
As Duke leads the talon away, Bruce has an epiphany: with the number of kids currently in his house, Bruce really should get a playground installed.