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Bruce Wayne took pride in his children.
Despite only one being his biological child, he loved them all equally. And despite how much they asked, he did not have a favorite. Not that anyone would ever admit it—they were all too stubborn, too smart, too chaotic to let him get away with playing favorites.
It wasn’t easy. Some of them called him “Dad” without hesitation, others stumbled over the word, as if daring him to be more human than he’d been trained to be. Some had no words at all, only gestures, glances, or unspoken needs. And yet, every single one of them left an impression he couldn’t shake, a mark that Thomas and Martha Wayne had left on him too.
He thought about it sometimes, bitterly or fondly depending on the day: how his parents had set an example he couldn’t follow, how their absence shaped him, and how these kids—these impossible, infuriating, brilliant kids—forced him to be the father they needed.
It was in these moments he could almost see it, the echo of his own parents’ love twisted and lost, and how he, in his own way, was trying to reclaim it. They had all called him “Dad” at some point, and every time, it left him raw, exposed, and begrudgingly proud.
—
Dick was his first.
He had taken him in, the sad, orphaned boy who needed a home. That’s what Bruce had assumed.
He was wrong.
Dick was resilient, he was happy, he was bouncing off the walls most days. When he became Robin, he had somewhere to put that endless energy. Only now though, Bruce was even more concerned about his well-being.
Dick had been up for days in a row, chasing shadows, pushing himself past exhaustion until every muscle, every joint, every fiber of his body screamed for rest. By the time he stumbled through the front doors of the manor, his cape soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to his shoulders, hair plastered across his forehead, and eyes half-closed, he looked smaller than usual, fragile, as though the night itself had pressed itself into his bones and left him hollow. His steps were slow, almost dragging, and the faintest tremor ran through his limbs with every movement.
Thomas and Martha would have carried him straight to bed without a second thought. That’s what I’m supposed to do, too, Bruce thought, kneeling for a moment to take in the sight of his son. The image of his parents’ warmth flooded him, memories of their unwavering presence reminding him of the man he wanted to be.
“Come on, Dick,” he said softly, bending down and scooping him up effortlessly. The weight was familiar, comforting in its own way, though heavy with fatigue. Dick rested his head against Bruce’s shoulder, small and trembling, letting himself sink into the warmth Bruce offered. “Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured.
He carried him through the quiet, echoing halls of the manor, the soft hum of the house wrapping around them like a protective cocoon. Dick murmured apologies between shivers, barely audible against the muted creak of the floorboards and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. “You’re not a burden,” Bruce said gently, brushing damp hair from Dick’s forehead. “Not to me. Not ever.”
Every step to Dick’s bedroom felt slower than it should have been. Bruce noticed the little things: the damp patches of his son’s cape leaving drops of water on the polished floors, the way his breathing hitched with each step, the tiny shivers that ran up his spine even as he rested in Bruce’s arms. Each of these little details tightened something in Bruce’s chest—a mix of worry, protectiveness, and pride.
When they reached the bedroom, Bruce eased Dick onto the bed with careful hands, adjusting pillows, tucking the covers snugly around him. He lingered, smoothing hair from his forehead and brushing an errant strand from Dick’s cheek, letting the boy sink into the warmth of the blankets. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the faint tang of rain from the patrol. The soft glow of the bedside lamp painted Dick’s features in gentle shadows, highlighting the vulnerability that Bruce had rarely seen but always respected.
He was about to leave when Dick’s small, quivering voice broke the quiet. “Dad… can you stay?”
Bruce paused, heart tightening at the words. He knelt beside the bed, letting his hand rest lightly on Dick’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m right here. I’ll stay.”
Dick exhaled slowly, finally releasing the tension that had built over days of sleepless nights and relentless patrols. His eyes fluttered closed as he curled slightly, head tucked against the pillow, and Bruce pulled a chair closer to the bed, sitting silently but attentively. He watched Dick’s chest rise and fall in steady rhythm, each breath a quiet affirmation of trust and safety.
Bruce let his gaze wander around the room, taking in every detail: the faint scuff marks on the floor from countless fights, the framed pictures of moments stolen between patrols, the little mementos that made this space theirs. He thought about Thomas and Martha again, about their steady guidance and warmth, and he allowed himself the rare acknowledgment that he was doing exactly what they would have done, and perhaps even better in his own way.
He stayed there for what felt like hours, letting the world slip away until only the quiet, rhythmic sound of Dick’s breathing remained. He whispered soft, encouraging words when the boy murmured in his sleep, smoothing hair from his damp forehead, tucking the blankets tighter around him. And when Dick shifted slightly, comforted by Bruce’s presence, he allowed himself a small, quiet smile. They would have been proud of this kid—and I’ll be proud of him too, every single time.
Bruce stayed, just as he had promised, a sentinel in the night, a father present in every sense, letting Dick drift safely into sleep while he kept watch, quietly grateful that he had the chance to be the kind of father his parents had taught him to be.
—
With Jason it was complicated.
Jason was a fearless, filled with the fight of a street kid. He knew how to handle himself and when Bruce took him in, he was beyond happy, smiles lighting up every room he walked in, still as stubborn and tough as before, just now with a wide, well-fed grin.
When Jason was younger, about eleven, still raw and impulsive, he had slipped up once, mid-question, and called Bruce “Dad” without thinking. The words had come out awkwardly, like a test he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take. Bruce had paused, looking down at him, and simply smiled.
“If you want to call me that, you can,” Bruce had said softly, letting the words hang in the air. No scolding. No correction. Just acceptance.
Jason blinked, then tried again, this time deliberately. “Dad?” he asked, quieter, hesitant. Bruce had nodded, gentle and patient, encouraging him. After that, the word came more easily, more often. He started using it intentionally, a small rebellion wrapped in trust, a recognition that Bruce was not just his mentor, not just his guardian—he was something more. Something reliable. Something he could call “Dad.”
After he came back to life it was different. Bruce was strictly “Bruce” to Jason. Occasionally, after they partially reconciled, he was “B.”
That day was different.
The rain had been relentless, pouring in thick sheets that blurred the edges of the city. Jason’s body ached in ways that went beyond the obvious injuries—his muscles screamed, his skin throbbed with bruises, and every breath felt like fire in his lungs. The streets were empty, shadows stretching and twisting around him, and for once, he didn’t care if anyone saw him falter. He only cared about one thing: getting home.
By the time he reached the manor, he could barely lift his hand to ring the bell. Alfred’s calm voice greeted him before he even opened the door. “Master Jason? Is that you?”
Jason’s lips trembled as he managed a single, hoarse question. “Where’s… my dad?”
The words barely left him before the flood of relief and pain threatened to shatter him. Bruce came instantly, moving faster than Jason expected, but there was no harshness in his stride—only that familiar sense of unwavering presence. He reached Jason in moments, gently guiding him inside, brushing rainwater and soaked hair away from his face.
“Come on,” Bruce said softly, steadying him. “Let’s get you somewhere dry and warm.”
Jason’s knees buckled, limbs weak, and he clung to Bruce as though letting go would mean disappearing entirely. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he fought them back, trying to hold himself together. Bruce didn’t push, didn’t scold. He merely held him close, letting the boy lean into him, resting his head against Bruce’s chest as they moved.
Thomas and Martha would have been exactly like this, Bruce thought. They would have carried him, cleaned him, comforted him without question. They would have made him feel safe. And so will I.
They moved inside, each step deliberate, quiet, unhurried. Bruce’s hand stayed firm against Jason’s back, grounding him, a silent promise that he was not alone. Jason’s voice came out again, muffled and small. “I… I messed up again,” he whispered, though there was no real danger now.
“You didn’t,” Bruce said gently, guiding him toward the guest room. “You’re hurt, that’s all. Let me worry about the rest.”
By the time they reached the room, Jason was trembling, drained from exhaustion, pain, and the weight of everything he had been carrying. Bruce eased him onto the bed with careful hands, helping him slide under the blankets. He brushed damp strands of hair from Jason’s forehead, and let a moment of quiet pass.
Jason looked up at him, lips trembling. “Bruce…”
“Yes?” Bruce replied softly, taking a seat beside the bed. His hand rested lightly on Jason’s shoulder, a quiet reassurance.
“I… I called you… I mean, I didn’t before… but…” Jason’s voice cracked.
Bruce nodded gently, a small, patient smile touching his lips. “That’s okay. You can call me whatever you need to.”
Jason let out a shaky breath, finally surrendering, letting himself collapse into the safety Bruce offered. He weakly wrapped his arms around him, clinging without shame or pride. Bruce held him with care, steady and patient, offering nothing but quiet support and the promise of presence.
For Jason, it wasn’t just comfort—it was the sense of being seen, being cared for, being accepted even when he felt broken. Bruce watched him slowly sink into a fragile, trembling sleep, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the quiet sniffles of someone who had fought too long alone.
Bruce’s mind wandered briefly to his own parents. Thomas and Martha would have been proud of him here—of how he could take someone so wounded and scared, of how he could offer protection and warmth without question. And maybe, just maybe, Jason would feel that too: that he was safe, that he was loved, and that he had a father who wouldn’t leave him alone in the storm.
He stayed until Jason was settled, until the tension in his shoulders eased and the tremors in his hands slowed. He whispered softly when the boy stirred in his sleep, brushed the hair away from his forehead again, and promised himself silently that he would always be here, no matter how many storms came.
—
Barbara was different entirely.
She already had a father— a good one. James Gordon was a man Bruce trusted with his life, a man who’d fought for Gotham with grit and honesty when others chose corruption and cowardice. Bruce had always respected him. And he respected the bond between him and his daughter even more.
He never tried to replace that. He didn’t need to. Barbara never asked him to. She was sunlight and intellect and stubborn fire, a force in her own right. Bruce only ever meant to guide her, to make sure that fire was never extinguished too soon.
When the Joker shot her, everything changed.
He remembered the call from the hospital, the static hum of the line, the way Dick’s voice trembled. He remembered the sterile smell of antiseptic, the blinding white hallways, the faint echo of her laughter that still lingered in his mind.
He paid for everything. The best doctors, the best rehabilitation, the most advanced equipment. He didn’t do it for gratitude. He did it because it was the only way he knew how to protect her when his fists couldn’t. Because it’s the way his parents showed him.
Thomas and Martha would have adored Barbara— her fierce intelligence, her stubborn streak, the way she never let life bend her entirely. He imagined Martha fussing over her like a grandmother would, worry mingling with pride, and Thomas quietly observing, impressed by her courage and resilience. They would have loved her as much as I do, he thought, feeling that familiar warmth in his chest.
He called often, sometimes late at night, just to check in—on her, on Jim, on both of them. He never stayed long on the line. Just long enough to hear her voice.
That morning, he was on the phone with Dick, the quiet hum of the heart monitor faint in the background.
“She’s waking up,” Dick whispered.
There was a rustle of movement, a small groan, and then her voice—soft, hoarse, but unmistakably hers.
“Where are my dads?”
Bruce froze. The words hung in the air like light through rain, and he could hear the sly little smile in her tone even through the phone.
“B’s on the phone,” Dick said. “And the commissioner’s talking with the nurse.”
There was a pause. Then Dick’s voice, quieter, gentler: “There’s something we gotta tell you, Babs.”
And then came the sound Bruce would never forget—the sharp inhale, the cry that broke halfway through, the fragile tremor in her voice when her real father walked in. Relief and grief and love, tangled into one unguarded sound.
He wasn’t her father. He never would be, not in name, not in the way James Gordon was. But when she looked at him weeks later, smiling steadily and teasing, and called him “Dad” in passing—he didn’t correct her. He didn’t even think to.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
In some quiet, unspoken way, she was his daughter too.
—
Tim was similar to Barbara in more ways than one. He hadn’t come to Bruce searching for a father — not at first. He came searching for Batman, the symbol, the logic, the proof that heroes could exist and endure even after tragedy.
When he first stood in the cave, small but defiant, asking— no, demanding— to become Robin, Bruce had seen that same flicker of determination he once saw in Dick and Jason. But behind it, there was something quieter. Loneliness. That kind of emptiness that doesn’t come from being unloved, but from being unseen.
Tim had parents, once. Two people who loved him, or at least said they did, but never seemed to be there long enough to prove it. Their love had been something sent on postcards, signed at the bottom of checks, heard in the faint static of long-distance calls.
When they died, Bruce remembered the way Tim’s composure cracked— the way his voice trembled but didn’t break, the way he tried to be strong for everyone else. He remembered sitting beside him, silent but present, offering the same wordless comfort Alfred had once given him the night his own world fell apart.
Tim had clung to that quiet, the steady hum of being cared for, and it grounded him.
He was a whirlwind, of course— clever, chaotic, sharp as glass— but his chaos always had a method to it. Every reckless act had a reason. Every late night in the cave had a purpose. Bruce saw so much of himself in that drive that it almost frightened him.
And then came the day Tim walked into the manor, grin wide, hair out of his eyes for once, dragging behind him someone who looked like every father’s worst nightmare.
The boy— or rather, the clone of Superman— was wearing black on black, torn jeans over ripped tights, spiked cuffs glinting under the manor lights. He looked like a rebellion personified.
“Dad, this is Conner— my boyfriend,” Tim said proudly, the word Dad slipping out so naturally that it took Bruce a full second to register it.
Bruce blinked. Once. Twice.
“Hi, Mr. Wayne,” Conner said quickly, thrusting out a hand, his voice deep and awkwardly polite.
Bruce stared at the hand, then at the nervous half-smile on the kid’s face. “I know who you are, Superboy,” he said, tone unreadable.
Conner’s smile faltered. “Right, right, I’m sorry. You scare me.”
Tim groaned under his breath, elbowing him. “Kon…” he muttered, his cheeks burning. “You made Dick introduce Wally to you. I was just doing the same thing.” He hesitated, then reached down and threaded his fingers through Conner’s, holding on like he didn’t care who was watching.
Bruce felt something tighten in his chest— pride, maybe, or something gentler. His son was brave. Braver than he had been at that age.
He thought of his mother then— how Martha Wayne had smiled at his father when she first brought him home from a rough day, how she’d said, Love doesn’t need permission, Bruce. It just needs space to exist.
Bruce exhaled slowly. He had promised himself he’d be the kind of man his parents would have been proud of.
“Thank you,” he said at last, voice dry but affectionate. “This lets me know to double the kryptonite collection.”
“What?!” Tim yelped. “Dad— no!”
Bruce didn’t answer, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. As Tim fussed, Conner laughed nervously, and the sound echoed up through the hall— loud, awkward, alive.
Bruce watched them go, that strange pair, sunlight and thunder. He leaned back in his chair and let the faintest warmth settle in his chest.
He’d always thought his parents would’ve loved Dick and Jason. But they would’ve adored Tim— his mind, his heart, his fierce loyalty.
—
Bruce had personally fought Stephanie’s father. He remembered the sting of that night— the sharp contrast between the cruelty in Cluemaster’s eyes and the desperate determination in his daughter’s. Stephanie Brown had been trouble from the start, stubborn and loud and endlessly reckless. But she had heart— more than most grown men Bruce had ever known.
He never stopped her from coming over. Not when she tried to be Robin, not when she was Batgirl, not when she took on the title of Spoiler. Even after their arguments— and there had been plenty— the manor door had always been open to her. He told himself it was because she needed a safe place. But deep down, he knew it was because he needed her there too.
They didn’t talk one-on-one much. Stephanie didn’t need words to fill silence; she filled it with her presence. With her laughter echoing down the halls, with her mismatched socks on the kitchen counter, with her habit of making Alfred roll his eyes and smile at the same time.
Still, Bruce knew things.
He knew her favorite color was purple— not just because she wore it, but because it made her feel strong. He knew her favorite sport was wrestling, and that she had an odd admiration for some alternative wrestler who wore black lipstick and reminded him vaguely of Cassandra. He knew about the battered junk journal she kept hidden under her pillow in her room at the manor, stuffed with sketches, ticket stubs, and scraps of half-written notes.
He considered her a daughter. He just never realized she considered him a father— not until that night.
They were in the living room for game night— a rare, chaotic occasion where almost everyone was gathered, laughter spilling over arguments about rules. Bruce remembered glancing up from his hand of cards just as Stephanie let out a shout.
“Dad, what the hell!” she yelled, voice sharp and indignant, cutting through the laughter like a spark through dry air.
Every head turned toward her. Jason was smirking. Dick was grinning like he’d been waiting years for this exact moment. Tim nearly choked on his drink. Barbara’s hands stilled where she shuffled the cards.
But Stephanie didn’t notice any of them. Her eyes darted immediately to Bruce’s face— wide, startled, searching. Waiting for anger. Waiting for rejection.
Bruce blinked, face unreadable. Then, in that calm, even tone that could quiet a room full of vigilantes, he said, “Rephrase.”
Stephanie froze. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, slowly, a crooked smile crept across her face. “What the hell, Dad?” she said again, this time lighter, teasing, testing the word on her tongue.
Bruce felt something tighten and ease at the same time in his chest. He had to fight the smile tugging at his own lips. “I meant, don’t curse at me,” he said, pretending to sound stern.
Laughter rippled around the room. Stephanie leaned back in her chair, grinning triumphantly. Bruce shook his head, unable to hide the small warmth rising behind his stoic mask.
Later, when the noise faded and everyone had gone to bed, Bruce lingered in the empty living room, thinking.
His mother used to laugh that way— loud, unrestrained, like she was daring the world to take joy from her. Thomas had always loved that about her. You can’t teach the kind of resilience your mom has, Bruce, his father once told him. Some people are born to find light in chaos.
He smiled faintly. Martha Wayne would’ve loved Stephanie. Thomas too, probably— her defiance, her humor, her kindness.
And in that moment, Bruce realized something he wouldn’t have admitted aloud. That he wasn’t just proud of her. He was grateful.
—
Cassandra was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that came from shyness or fear— but the kind that felt deliberate, rooted in understanding the world through touch and silence. Where others used words like armor, Cassandra used observation. She moved through the manor like a whisper, graceful and certain, seeing everything, saying only what mattered.
Bruce had learned early on that Cass didn’t need noise to feel safe. She needed presence. Someone nearby, steady and consistent, who would let her exist without demanding explanations.
Sometimes he would find her sitting by the window, knees drawn up, eyes tracing the shapes of falling leaves. Other times, she’d sneak into the cave late at night just to sit beside him while he worked. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to.
She reminded him of his mother in those moments— Martha Wayne, who used to talk with her hands almost as much as her voice. When Bruce was a boy, she’d sign little things to him at galas when she couldn’t speak over the crowd: Patience. Smile. I’m proud of you. He’d forgotten most of it until Cass came into his life and reminded him that language was more than sounds.
Cassandra didn’t ask for much. She never did. But one evening, while the manor was calm and the air outside hummed with the faint promise of rain, she found Bruce in the library. He was reading, the firelight flickering over the pages, when she approached him quietly.
“Teach me?” she asked softly, her hands moving swiftly in the shadows.
He looked up, setting the book aside. “Of course. What would you like to learn?” He knew she could talk, she was capable, he made sure, but it overwhelmed her. She preferred the silence of the hand motions.
Cass hesitated, fingers flexing slightly at her sides, eyes darting toward the hallway— where she could hear Dick and Jason bickering, Stephanie laughing, Tim muttering something sarcastic in response, Damian threatening them. All their voices mixing, and one word weaving through all of them like a thread she couldn’t quite reach.
She took a breath, then looked at him. “How do you sign…” Her hands paused, searching for the word in her brain. She leaned over, taking the pen from the desk and scribbling the word on a sticky note.
‘Dad’
Bruce froze, heart stumbling in his chest. For a moment, the world went very still— just the sound of rain starting to tap softly against the windows.
He swallowed. “Dad?” he repeated, just to be sure.
Cass nodded, eyes soft but steady. “Everyone else calls you that,” she signed haltingly. “I want to, too.”
Something inside him ached, the kind of ache that came with love too deep to express aloud. He smiled faintly and reached for her hand.
He showed her slowly— guiding her fingers through the movement. The motion was small, tender, almost reverent. “Like this,” he murmured.
Cass tried it once, then again, until it felt right. She looked up at him, waiting. “Dad,” she signed.
Bruce didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment. He only nodded, voice quiet when it finally came. “Perfect,” he said.
Cass smiled— a small, real smile— and before he could react, she leaned forward and hugged him. He froze, then returned it, his chin resting lightly atop her head.
He thought of Martha again— how she would’ve adored this girl who spoke with her hands, who saw love in silence. And Thomas, who would’ve seen the same stubborn gentleness that he once admired in her.
When Cass pulled back, Bruce brushed a strand of hair from her face, pride settling softly in his chest. “Thank you for asking,” he said.
Cass shook her head. “Thank you for being my dad,” she signed back.
—
Duke hadn’t lost his parents in one clean, brutal instant like the others. The Joker’s toxin had taken them slowly—corroding who they were until there was nothing left but hollow echoes of love and memory. Bruce had seen loss before, but what Duke lived through was a quieter kind of cruelty: being orphaned by degrees.
When Bruce found him, Duke wasn’t asking for help. He was fighting back, trying to protect others even while his own world was burning down. That was what drew Bruce in. Not the tragedy, but the defiance that survived it.
It took time for Duke to find his place in the manor. He was too independent, too sharp-edged, too determined to prove he didn’t need anyone. But little by little, he started staying longer—training after hours, leaving his things in the cave, eating dinner with the others even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry.
Then one afternoon, Bruce was walking past Duke’s room on his way to the study when he heard his voice. It was casual, light in a way Bruce didn’t often hear. Duke was on the phone, laughing about something with a school friend.
“Yeah, I can’t tonight,” Duke was saying. “My dad’s making me help with something. You know how he gets.”
Bruce stopped mid-step. For a heartbeat, he thought he’d misheard. But the warmth in Duke’s tone— the unthinking ease of it— left no doubt.
He didn’t step in. Didn’t make a sound. Just lingered there a moment, hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
There was no ceremony to it, no sudden realization— just a quiet truth that had found its own way into being.
When Duke ended the call and looked up, he caught sight of Bruce in the hallway. “Hey, uh— what’s up?” he asked, a little too quickly.
“Nothing,” Bruce said, his voice even. “Just… checking in.”
He didn’t mention what he’d heard. Didn’t need to.
As he walked away, he found himself thinking of his own father—of how the word dad had once felt unreachable, something buried in another lifetime. Hearing it again, from someone who had every reason not to say it, felt like something quietly mended inside him.
Something whole.
—
Damian was predictable.
At least, that’s what Bruce used to tell himself. Damian called him Father—always Father, sharp and deliberate, like a title rather than a name. It was expected, consistent, formal. Bruce had grown used to the sound of it echoing through the manor halls—commanding, proud, distinctly his mother’s influence.
But that afternoon was different.
Alfred couldn’t make the drive, so Bruce went to pick him up from school himself. The moment Damian stepped into the car, Bruce could tell it had been a bad day. His shoulders were tight, jaw locked, the kind of tension that meant he was one wrong word away from a fight.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stared out the window at the blur of Gotham giving way to the quieter sprawl of New Jersey. Then, out of nowhere, he burst out—his tone clipped, biting in that familiar way.
“Father, all these people are terrible,” he started. “They’re loud, they have no sense of dignity, and they’re mean to dogs and cats.”
Bruce blinked, keeping his eyes on the road. “Mean to dogs and cats?”
Damian crossed his arms, still glaring out the window. “There are shelters, hundreds of them. I saw one. They keep the animals in cages, and no one helps them or cares for them. No one even looks at them.”
His voice cracked—just slightly—but enough for Bruce to notice.
When they stopped at a light, Bruce glanced over. Damian’s eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as he struggled to compose himself. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I didn’t know people just left them there.”
For a boy raised by assassins, who had seen death before he ever saw kindness, it was the smallest, simplest cruelty that broke him.
Bruce pulled over to the side of the road without a word. He reached out, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. Damian froze at first, then pressed his face against Bruce’s sleeve—just for a second—before straightening up again, cheeks red and jaw tightening back into its usual stubborn set.
“Baba,” he muttered under his breath, the word barely audible. “It’s wrong. It’s injustice.”
Bruce stilled. Those words had never left Damian’s mouth before, the small, almost fragileness of it sent a coil of barbed wire around Bruce’s throat.
His parents would have adored this boy—this sharp, proud, stubborn grandson who was learning, piece by piece, how to be gentle in a world that had never shown him how. Thomas would’ve spoiled him rotten, and Martha… she would’ve cried at that small, brokenhearted concern over the dogs. She always had a soft spot for the helpless.
Sometimes Bruce could almost hear them—his mother’s laughter, his father’s calm reassurance—echoing faintly in the back of his mind. You’re doing fine, Son. He’s loved. That’s what matters.
“I know,” Bruce said softly. “We’ll do something about it.”
Damian nodded, wiping his eyes as if daring Bruce to mention it. “Good. Because I already texted Drake to tell Alfred to prepare my room. We’re adopting three cats and three dogs at minimum.”
Bruce exhaled, hiding the faintest smile. “We’ll discuss it at home.”
The car went quiet again, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind. Damian’s head tilted against the window, his voice smaller this time when he spoke.
“Thank you, Baba.”
Bruce didn’t correct him. He never would.
It was the first time Damian called him that—and somehow, it felt more real than any Father ever had.
—
Bruce Wayne loved his children.
Despite only one being his biological son, he loved them all equally. And despite how often they pushed, challenged, and exhausted him, he did not have a favorite. The love he felt for them was fierce, quiet, and unshakable— the kind of love he remembered in flashes from his own parents.
He could see it now, clear as day, in the way Thomas and Martha had held him, comforted him, and never let him doubt he was worthy of care. He knew he had felt this kind of love before, tracing the echoes of it in himself as he cared for Dick, Jason, Barbara, Tim, Stephanie, Cassandra, Duke, and Damian. The same warmth, the same fierce protection, mirrored in the children who called him Dad.
Now, sitting in the middle of a very important business weekend meeting, Bruce was forced back into the world of suits and deals. His phone buzzed insistently on the table in front of him. He ignored it at first, but it buzzed again— and again— until finally, he answered, shooting a small text after confirming it wasn’t life or death.
“Sorry,” he muttered under his breath. “My kids.”
The executive across from him froze. “You have… kids?”
Bruce froze, too, but this time not from hesitation. From somewhere deep, a quiet pride filled him; the words had slipped out so easily. “Yes. My kids. They’re… my everything.”
He reached for the small leather photo wallet on the edge of his briefcase, flipping it open with a reverence no boardroom had ever seen:
Polaroids of Dick, mid-laugh, exhaustion and joy intertwined as he slid down the banister.
A glossy photo of Jason, streaked with mud, eyes mischievous even after the worst nights.
Barbara in a hospital bed, sly smile intact, proof of resilience.
A screenshot of a surveillance video of Tim and Conner, fingers intertwined at the Titans Tower, happiness in a chaotic world.
A close up of Stephanie mid-boxing, grin wide, even with blood dripping from her nose.
Cassandra in the library, leaning over a book, signing softly, eyes bright, hands telling a story no one else could hear, her fingers making out nonsensical words.
Duke, caught mid-laugh outside a Batburger, hair in his eyes, the sun shining bright on him, courage radiating through.
Damian smiling at the animals he leaned down next to them at the shelter, small treats in his hands.
And tucked behind it all, a small drawing of all of them, careful lines, tiny initials: D.W.A-G at the bottom corner.
Bruce traced the initials with a fingertip. This is what my parents saw in me, he realized, the love they gave, the way they held me. And now I see it again, in me, for them, for all of them.
“Those are my kids,” he said aloud, voice low but steady. “All of them. Every one of them. They’re mine.”
The executive blinked, unsure how to respond. Bruce didn’t care. The word wasn’t just a title. It was home.
And in that moment, Bruce Wayne— son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, protector of Gotham, and man who had loved and lost— was exactly what his parents would have wanted him to be: a father.