Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bruce immediately started brainstorming his options. He hated all of them.

The first option was not an option at all. And that was for Bruce to show up as he was, handwaving it away as magic bullshit. This option had a few problems. Number one, despite patient-confidentiality being so important in medicine, Bruce was not a patient, thus it did not apply to him, and gossip was inevitable. Bruce would very much prefer if news about his condition did not spread. Number two, magic may have been a major nuisance in Bruce's life, but most people never encountered it and had a hard time wrapping their heads around it. Number three, Philip's mind was already confused. Bruce didn't need to be adding to it. Number four, Bruce needed Philip to treat him like an adult, an equal, and that was a difficult ask when he looked like a child.

The second and third options were Bruce's favourite and of course, they were not feasible. Bruce could theoretically build a robot that looked like him and control it from a distance, but that would require years of design and development. Philip would be gone by the time Bruce managed to build something passable. Hologram technology required less work, but while Bruce could make something convincing for one person, the second someone glanced at him from the wrong angle, the illusion would fall apart.

The fourth option was to ask Amaya for help. That would mean dealing with side effects for a prolonged period. The last time Bruce came into contact with Amaya's magic, it had been indirect. Even so, the side effects persisted for five days. Bruce didn't mind the side effects, but he would rather his excursion remained a secret from his kids. Lying came to Bruce as naturally as breathing – he was bred for it; the one thing 'polite society' loved most was lying – but he wasn't fond of lying to his kids. Even so, no matter what lie Bruce told his kids, they would be upset with him given the current situation. So, Bruce would prefer reducing the side effects as much as possible.

That left Bruce with his fifth and final option. This one was simple but hard. Simple in that nothing needed to be invented or developed in order to pull it off. Hard in that it heavily involved another person in what was a very personal and messy affair.

The fifth option was to ask J'onn to shapeshift into Bruce and speak for him through a mind link.

It would be a big ask.

It was the safest option.

Bruce hadn't shared his identity with anyone in the Justice League, but his kids had shared who they were with their respective teams. They may have omitted Batman's identity and downplayed his involvement in their lives as just a mentor, but anyone with brains would be able to connect the Gotham vigilantes through their common link. Then again, the kids were careful about their identities with other teams, so perhaps there was more of a disconnect than Bruce thought. Even so, after working together for decades, there were enough clues to string together a suspect list if they so desired.

J'onn being a mind reader made it infinitely easier. Intentionally or otherwise, he was privy to most of the Justice League's inner secrets. This fact made him the best secret keeper in the JL. Because J'onn knew about discretion better than anyone. Because he knew that not everything was meant to be shared. Even if it were to the detriment of the secret keeper and others. Private matters remained private.

But Bruce had no idea what Uncle Philip wanted to tell him. Would it be fair to subject J'onn to that?

It wouldn't.

It seemed like he had to get started on thinking of a good lie to tell the kids.

Bruce: Do you have a spell or potion that would turn me back into my normal self?

Amaya: Is there something wrong with the current transformation?

Bruce: No, I just need to be an adult for a day

Amaya: I can make a transformation potion but I'm afraid of how it will interact with the one already in your system

Bruce: Would it affect the final results?

Amaya: Possibly

Bruce: Understood. Thank you for answering my questions.

Amaya: Are you okay, Bruce?

Bruce: Yes.

Amaya: Have you been eating well?

Bruce: The kids have been taking turns cooking dinner. Every day is something new.

Amaya: I'm glad to hear that
Amaya: I look forward to having dinner with you again after this is all over

Bruce is typing…

Bruce is typing…

Bruce is typing…

Bruce: I'll bring dessert.

Amaya: Love to hear that

Well, that was a dead end.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

Bruce was a master strategist and yet he couldn't come up with a single plan that would let him visit his sick uncle. What was the point of all those contingency plans if he didn't have a single android or clone that could visit Philip was his behalf? Stupid. Useless. Useless!

Uncle Philip was going to get lost in his mind again and Bruce would never know what he wanted to tell him and he would be left wondering forever and ever. The first time in over a decade the man wanted to talk to Bruce, and he couldn't fulfil that request. What if it was something important? About his mother? What if Philip wanted to…

It didn't matter. Bruce couldn't go. He'd just have to deal with the questions for the rest of his life.

But…

He had to go. Uncle Philip wanted to talk to Bruce. Philip never wanted to talk to Bruce. He had to make it happen.

Batman: Do you know who I am?

Martian Manhunter: I do.

Batman: I have a request. It's personal and may be uncomfortable. You're free to refuse.

Martian Manhunter: Tell me about it.

Batman: Let's move onto personal channels.

After Bruce explained the situation over the phone, J'onn had surprisingly agreed. He hadn't hesitated at all and Bruce had to share a little more about his uncle's personality to make sure J'onn knew what he was getting into. J'onn may have been on undercover missions with violent mobsters before but… okay, Philip was not comparable to a ruthless gangster. If J'onn could manage aggressive criminals, then he could handle whatever Philip threw at him. Unfortunately, Bruce came to this realisation a tad bit too late, and his repeated warnings about his uncle made J'onn a little concerned for him.

The concern was… new. It made his chest squeeze in a foreign and strange way. It was almost enough for Bruce to call the whole operation off, but he held himself back. He needed to visit his uncle.

If this little thing was enough to be concerning, what would actually speaking to Philip be like?

… Henry wasn't fond of his father but he still visited pretty frequently. Philip must've mellowed out with age. It was probably fine. If not, J'onn was the least judgemental person Bruce knew so it was going to be okay. Besides, whatever Philip was going to say, it was going to be directed at Bruce, not J'onn. It would be like J'onn accidentally seeing an unpleasant memory from one of their teammates. Just, a little more present than usual. Which Bruce was fine with. With how he'd been projecting whenever injured, J'onn would have seen it eventually anyway.

Bruce went to the Watchtower early in the morning after feeding the pets. He and J'onn went to a private room and hashed out the details of their operation. They got his body language and mannerisms down to a passable level. It took longer than anticipated, but only because Bruce was strict about posture, the proper amount of eye contact, and deference and all the little details that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but was important nonetheless. J'onn was patient with him, perhaps appeased by the gift basket of chocos and snacks Bruce brought, and adjusted his posture by whatever minuscule angle Bruce informed him about.

And then, after practising speaking – Bruce speaking through the mind link and J'onn saying it with Bruce's voice – they were finally ready to see Philip.

Henry had informed the facility ahead of time, so they were able to gain access to Philip's room without issue. The nurses were a little surprised to see Bruce, but he had donned a small disguise and pretended to be a Kane cousin (the Kane family was extensive) so they didn't pay him much mind. They were much more interested in J'onn, disguised as Bruce Wayne, than they were the unknown Kane boy.

J'onn, as directed by Bruce, flashed a small smile at them and politely dismissed them once they reached Philip's room.

Bruce's heart pounded in his chest. He could make out the sound of hospital machinery on the other side of the door. Philip hated noise, would he be in a bad mood because of the whirring equipment? No, Philip had been in this facility for a long time now. He must've gotten used to the noise. Besides, this was a hospice. They must've given him good medication for his chronic migraines. And even if Philip was in a bad mood, the most he'd have been able to do was raise his voice a little. All Bruce had to do was sit there and listen. Nothing difficult. That's all. So, why was he scared?

J'onn placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder and gently squeezed. He directed a kind smile at him, and Bruce never knew his face could look so soft, so warm. Even when playing Brucie, he was never able to look so gentle.

Bruce took in a steadying breath and nodded.

J'onn squeezed his shoulder once more and then finally slid the door open.

Hidden by J'onn's bulk, Bruce took a peek at his uncle. Philip looked more fragile than he did since the last time Bruce saw him. His hair had gone completely grey and thin, skin sagged and papery, bones frail and brittle. He looked decades older than he actually was. The disease had evidently stolen more than his mind from him.

"Bruce," Philip feebly said. "You came."

Bruce told J'onn to nod through their mental link and instructed him to sit on the chair by the bed. He took care to stay out of his uncle’s limited field of vision.

"Henry said you were busy and might not come in time."

'He told me you had something important to say.'

"He told me you had something important to say," J'onn dutifully relayed, tone and all. It had exactly the amount of detached politeness Bruce intended.

"Yes," Philip slowly said. "Yes, I do."

The silence dragged on. Philip's machine-assisted breathing was deafening, as though it were the loudest sound in the world.

"Bruce."

"…"

"I heard from Henry that you helped him a lot when I was first admitted-" Philip was interrupted by a coughing fit. When the coughing ceased, J'onn helped him drink a few sips of water. It was more than Bruce would've done. He still remembered his uncle's disdain for his touch. "Henry's intimidated by Jacob so it's good that he had you to turn to."

It was less Henry being intimidated by their uncle Jacob and more Jacob's judgement of the man for him being born out of wedlock. Jacob was an old fashioned military official who alienated his own daughter for being gay. Henry stood no chance.

'Of course, Uncle. We're family.'

"Of course, Uncle. We're family."

"That's– that's right. We're family…" Philip sighed and looked out the window. "Bruce, back then, when I took you in for a while. I was still a young man."

Uncle Philip was almost thirty at the time. Bruce wasn't even twenty when he took Dick in.

"I did the best I could but I know I made a lot of mistakes. I left you alone a lot and I shouldn't have.”

Bruce twitched. Was this really happening?

“But you have to understand-“

Ah, ‘but’.

“—I wasn't ready for a child and I didn't know what I was doing. You were such a difficult child.”

Bruce’s shoulders crept up to his ears. His hands clenched around his trousers as shame flooded through his body.

“You never slept at night and you were always so erratic. You flip-flopped between being okay and acting like you were dying. And you know about my migraines. I barely got enough sleep as it was, and you made it worse with all the ruckus. It was like you’d taken a hammer and beaten me in the head with it.”

Bruce didn’t mean to be so noisy. He tried to be respectful of his uncle’s pain – he really did – but his mind tormented him at night, and the cries left his mouth without permission.

“I wasn't equipped to handle all that. You understand, right? And- and you were so desperate for connection that you even clung to that cop. I didn't want you to see me as a second father. I couldn't handle that responsibility. I regret a lot of what I did back then. Forgive me, Bruce."

Static filled Bruce’s mind.

'Forgive me'?

The hollow words echoed, each empty repetition losing more and more meaning.

Was this what Philip summoned him for? This stupid speech?

'Forgive me.'

Why did it feel like Bruce was in the wrong when Philip was the one apologising?

Not to mention, Philip had conveniently left out all that he did to Bruce. Leaving him alone was a mere fraction of all that he had done. The open disdain, locking him in the cellar, burning his sketchbooks after Bruce had drawn something for him, making him feel like a pariah in what was supposed to be his new home!

Bruce hadn't needed a second father. He just wanted someone.

'Forgive me.'

Was this what closure was like? What an awful thing. Why did people seek this out if it felt so empty?

Bruce could feel J'onn in the periphery of his mind. He flexed his fingers and smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers.

It was true. Bruce was a difficult child. No matter who took him in, he would have caused them trouble. Philip hadn't been ready for Bruce, and he hadn't wanted him either. Bruce bulldozed his way into his life anyway. So, Philip may have been cruel at times, but it wasn't anything Bruce didn't deserve. He was an unwelcome squatter and Philip had treated him like it.

Besides, if it hadn't been for his uncle, Bruce wouldn't have wandered the streets of Gotham so often in his youth. He had always loved Gotham but it was his experiences as Pebble that led to Bruce falling in love with Gotham. Without that love, Batman would have been a very different vigilante. Less understanding, perhaps. Lacking compassion for people who had been backed into the corner. Bruce knew how fear and instability narrowed your vision and commandeered your body. He knew most people wouldn't resort to violence if they thought they had another choice.

Bruce's childhood hadn't been horrible. He had been afraid and starved for love, but that hadn't been Philip's fault. Alfred hadn't been able to make Bruce any less afraid and desperate for love. Besides, Philip was apologising, wasn't he? Bruce should forgive him. Absolve the dying man of his guilt. It would be the right thing to do. Let him leave in peace.

The fact that Philip sought closure from Bruce must mean he actually cared, right?

'You're forgiven, Uncle.'

"I don't forgive you."

Bruce's neck almost snapped at the speed with which he raised it to look at J'onn. His Bruce Wayne disguise had lost that soft deference and contorted with something that looked like disgust or disdain. Something horrible that Batman only directed at his enemies.

'J'onn, what are you—?'

"Do you even know what you've done?" His voice lacked Batman's signature growl, but the essence of it shone through. It was glacial, an ice-cold rage that sent shivers down Bruce's spine. He couldn't help himself; Bruce shrunk back at the sound of it. "A child was placed under your care and you failed him. Do you remember what you told him? The things you taught him? The harm that you have done to him?"

"Bruce," Philip warned.

Bruce instinctively fixed his posture but J'onn kept going, undeterred by Philip's anger.

"What did you do when your son was too loud, Philip? Did you put him in Time Out too? Or was that reserved for when traumatised children cried out at night because their parents died in front of them not even a year ago?"

The breathing apparatus whirled as Philip's breathing became laboured.

"Have you ever been locked in a cold, dark room, Philip? Unsure when you'll be free. Afraid that you've been abandoned. Aching for love from someone who'd deemed you unloveable."

Bruce grabbed onto J'onn's trousers, suddenly unsteady and dizzy.

"A child. You did that to a child."

Stop it.

"Not just any child. Your nephew. Your sister’s son. She’d have been appalled at what you did to her son.”

Stop it.

"Even now, you lack the decency to apologise. 'Forgive me?' Are you asking or demanding forgiveness? At least say the words ‘I’m sorry’.”

Stop it!

"You're not forgiven. Ask for a priest if you want to be absolved of your sins."

J'onn walked out, ignoring Philip demands for him to come back. Bruce followed closely behind, reeling at what just happened.

They managed to leave before a nurse could reprimand them for agitating their patient, and found a secluded area to stop at.

"What was that?" Bruce hissed.

J'onn shifted into his preferred human form and took a seat on the bench. Bruce stayed standing.

“Our minds were linked,” J’onn stated. “I could feel how that man and his words made you feel.”

Bruce bit down on his lip and clenched his fists. “You were supposed to repeat what I say.”

J’onn looked at him with his kind, kind eyes, and Bruce wanted so desperately for him to never set his eyes upon him ever again. He wanted him to never look away.

“I sat there and listened to him blame you for the pain he put you through. He wasn’t looking for forgiveness, Bruce. He doesn’t think he’s in the wrong at all. But he feels guilt so he wanted you to rid him of it. That’s it. Meanwhile, you were hurting yourself trying to forgive him. Falling for his lies. Giving him exactly what he wanted.”

“So what?!” Bruce wrapped his arms around himself. “What was the harm in playing along one final time?”

J’onn’s accursed eyes softened impossibly further and he spoke with heart-wrenching sincerity, “You were being harmed by it.”

“That-” doesn’t matter. Bruce didn’t finish the sentence but he suspected J’onn heard it anyway. “That doesn’t mean you can yell at my uncle that like. He’s—The disrespect. He’s family, you can’t just– And- and you even dragged my mother into it!”

“My friend was being pressured into forgiving his abuser. I lashed out. Anyone would have.”

“You don’t understand anything! You don’t get to step in and act like you know everything. He’s… He’s my uncle. He’s not the monster you’re making him out to be.”

“I saw your memories, Bruce. I know what he did and said to you.”

“You were supposed to repeat what I said, not speak for me.” Tears fell in streams down Bruce’s cheeks. “My uncle Philip is dying and my last interaction with him is this.”

J’onn raised his arms and tried to wipe the tears from Bruce’s face but he stepped away from them. J’onn dropped his arms and sighed. “Alright. I didn’t mean to cause such distress. I was appalled by your uncle’s actions and reacted in turn, but I should have taken your feelings into account. I’m sorry, Bruce. I will go back and erase your uncle’s memories of the interaction and redo it as initially planned.”

Bruce’s mind blanked and turned to static. He grabbed onto the only lifeline he could find; anger. “Uncle Philip’s mind is already confused enough as is, I don’t need you adding to it!” He roughly tugged his hair with two tight fists. “I should never have asked for your help. How am I supposed to fix this?”

“If you would allow me, I will apologise to him and give him the forgiveness he desires. I promise you I will not touch his mind.”

Bruce roughly shook his head and wiped his face with his arm. Tears and sobs continued to bubble out of him.

He didn’t want J’onn to have to face Philip alone, but Bruce didn’t want to see him again either. He wanted to put this all behind him and never have to deal with his uncle again. Bruce wanted to pretend none of this happened. He wanted to just cry and drown out all this confusing tangle of emotions.

J’onn’s arms appeared within his field of vision once more, slowly moving closer and closer until Bruce could feel them press against his back. And then he was being lifted into J’onn’s embrace. Bruce instinctively wrapped his arms around J’onn’s neck as he was gently swayed side to side.

“I’m sorry,” J’onn said again. Bruce could feel the rumble of the words against his cheek. He pressed his face further into J’onn’s chest so that he could feel it again. “I’m sorry.”

He hated J’onn for yelling at Uncle Philip. Hated him for offering to face Philip again. Hated him for apologising and meaning it and still being so kind and hugging him after Bruce yelled at him. And Bruce hated Uncle Philip for causing the usually calm and reserved J’onn to snap. He hated that after all these years, Bruce was still the bad guy in his story. He hated him for what he did, and for wanting forgiveness and not loving Bruce to this day. He hated himself for enjoying J’onn’s hug and craving Philip’s approval and crying and making a nuisance of himself when he was the one who involved J’onn in this mess.

“I’m going to walk back to the car, alright?”

J’onn only began moving once Bruce nodded. He took a path with the least amount of people, but they definitely drew attention given the emotional mess that was Bruce. But no one questioned them. They were probably used to children being upset given the whole hospice thing.

J’onn set Bruce down on the passenger seat of the car and strapped him in.

“I’m sorry that today didn’t go as you expected.”

Bruce curled up in the seat and buried his face in his knees.

J’onn sighed and started the car.

His eyelids slipped closed at some point, lulled by exhaustion and the gentle rumble of the car. Bruce let himself sleep; better that than suffering for two hours in this terse silence.

“Bruce, I’ve got you a chocolate shake. Have some. You’re a bit dehydrated.”

Bruce’s eyelids fluttered open. There were two milkshakes in the cupholders.

“… Thank you.”

He drank the milkshake so fast that it gave him a brain freeze. Bruce welcomed the sensation. His mind was too crowded with conflicting thoughts.

Bruce was fourteen and he fucking hated it. He had already intended to avoid seeing anyone with the side effects present but this transformation solidified the resolve. To make matters worse, that same flood of memories he got from his first transformation repeated, and Bruce’s entire life was being recontextualised through the lenses of his fourteen-year-old self. So, now, he had a pounding headache and a disdain for himself that have reached new heights previously thought impossible.

Because what the hell was up with his child-self yesterday?!

He yelled at J’onn, his friend, for Philip??!!?!? Philip?? That piece of shit with a spine weaker than a cheeto?

J’onn had been so kind, so patient with that spoiled brat when Bruce threw his stupid little tantrum, over Philip!!! By Gotham, Bruce wanted to kick the Bruce from yesterday and drown him in the pond behind the manor. The dumbass pest chose his shitty fucking family over one of the only friends he had. What the fuck? Family was burdensome expectations and parasites who only knew to take and take and take. Friends were the real ones who had your back. Friends chose you. Family didn’t.

J’onn chose Bruce and that ungrateful shrimp went and stabbed him in the back for Philip.

He didn’t even say anything wrong! Philip was an asshole who shouldn’t have been around children. If anything, J’onn said too little. That rant didn’t cover half the shit his fuckass uncle put him through. By Gotham, the fact that Bruce survived his childhood was a minor miracle, or a joke from some higher being who thought it would be funny to prolong Bruce’s suffering.

And the key point? Philip. Didn’t. Fucking. Apologise.

And Bruce had the audacity to yell at J’onn for rightfully calling bull. The snivelling little bitch cowered like a rat in front of Philip, and yet had the balls to scream at the person who he dragged into this mess because he didn’t want to face Phillip alone. The wimp tried to justify it but Bruce knew himself and he knew the truth. He was afraid to meet Philip alone and wanted someone there for him. And J’onn was so nice to him even after what he did, and bought the unworthy Bruce a milkshake too!

Nope. Bruce wasn’t going to let his useless child-self destroy his friendship with J’onn. (He’s friends with a Martian! That’s so fucking cool!) He didn’t have many of those. No way he was burning that bridge for Philip.

Batman: You were right
Batman: Sorry for yesterday
Batman: Thank you for what you said

Martian Manhunter: No need to apologise.
Martian Manhunter: I overstepped.
Martian Manhunter: Are you feeling alright?

Batman: Yes

Martian Manhunter: This is not typical of you.

Ah, fuck, Bruce forgot about the anal punctuation Batman used for his texts.

Batman: I matured overnight
Batman: Gained new perspectives
Batman: Less concern for punctuation
Batman: Lets have some cookies and cream ice cream the next time we meet

Martian Manhunter: I see.
Martian Manhunter: I do not require a gift to enjoy your presence, Batman. I appreciate it nonetheless.

… Bruce didn’t deserve J’onn but he had him anyway, and he was going to everything he could to keep him.

“Don’t fuck this up for me,” he said out loud, a message for his older self when he saw this memory later. That bastard already lost the one friend Bruce made in childhood so he’d be damned if they fucked this one up too.

“Arf.” Ace stretched on the bed and sat up beside Bruce.

“Oooh, big stretch,” Bruce commented. He raised his arm and scratched the base of Ace’s ear.

His arm was naked. And so was the rest of him. But that wasn’t what caught Bruce’s attention. No, it was the fact that his arm was naked but he couldn’t see the scar he’d gotten after he nicked himself on a barbed wire fence a (twenty-five) year(s) ago. Bruce threw off his blanket and held his foot in his hand. It was missing the scar he’d gotten from stepping on broken glass four (twenty-nine) years ago. In fact, Bruce’s body was completely free from any marks or bruises. No scrapes or bruises gained from the fights he threw himself into. Nothing.

“What the fuck…” Bruce whispered to himself.

He immediately called Amaya.

“Good morning, Bruce.”

Bruce cleared his throat to make sure he wouldn’t suffer the mortifying ordeal of a voice crack. “Morning, Amaya.”

“Oh, your voice sounds different! Have you had another adventure?”

Bruce snorted. ‘Adventure’ was one way to put it. “Yeah, turned me into a teenager. But, I’m supposed to have scars. Am I really turning into myself at this age, or is this potion turning me into versions of myself that don’t exist? I feel like how I remember fourteen being–” anger with nowhere to go, self-loathing, directionless, wanting to do so much, lacking the agency to do anything “--but that could also be the potion’s doing. How can I know I’m myself if the potion can influence my mind? Will I be me after it wears off? Will I get my proper body and mind back? What if I turn into someone else and I don’t even know it?”

“What are the ingredients that make a chocolate chip cookie?”

“W-what?”

“Just humour me and answer, please, Bruce.”

“Hrn, f-flour, egg, butt-butter, sugar, vanilla and choc-chocolate chips. And, uhm, baking soda.”

“Are you feeling a little calmer now?”

Bruce realised how short his breathing had become and the way it evened out as he listed the ingredients. He hated how often he catastrophised into panic attacks at this age. Fourteen was a fucking nightmare. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No worries. Now, to answer your question, the potion can influence your mind, as you well know, but only to the extent that it affects your body. This is not exactly analogous but it’s like eating in response to your stomach rumbling. Your body does something, and you act in turn. But it can’t force you to eat a burger instead of a pizza. So, when the potion turned you younger, you acted like you when you were younger, not me when I was young. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“So, I’m still me? But why don’t I have scars? This isn’t the body I had at this age.”

“There were an abundance of healing herbs in the potion. I included them to counterbalance the malicious nature of the curse. They must’ve erased your scars.”

“Oh…” Bruce leaned back against Ace. “Will… will my real body also…?”

He thought back to the metal in his spine. The way his joints told him when it was going to rain. Skin that pulled tight with scars of all shapes and sizes.

Bruce knew how his older self felt about the scars. Indifference on most days. Annoyance when pain flared and impaired movement. Then, there were the days that Bruce used them as reminders of his purpose. The bullet that found its way into his bicep instead of a homeless person. The burn from rescuing a family from a fire. A bite wound from someone under the influence of scarecrow toxin. Gotham had marked him, his body a tapestry of the city and her people, good and bad.

“You’ll most likely return to form without your past injuries and scars,” Amaya answered.

“But my battle wounds-.”

“You’re such a teenage boy,” Amaya cooed.

Bruce huffed. “Scars are cool.”

Amaya laughed. “As much as it pains me to say, I’m sure you’ll build them back up eventually. Hopefully at a much slower rate, and ultimately, less than before.”

Bruce smirked, “Of course, I’m Batman. I kicked ass when I had paper mache bones. Imagine me with an actual skeleton!”

“I’m sure you’d wreak havoc on the streets,” Amaya teased. “But I was referring to the fact that Gotham will be cured.”

“Gotham will be cured,” Bruce repeated reverently. He sniffled and cleared his throat. “Well, thanks for answering my questions, but I’ve gotta feed Ace now.”

“Oh, yes, can’t let that growing boy go hungry. You boys eat have a good meal. I look forward to seeing a photo of you two later.”

Bruce grimaced. His mouth suddenly felt dry. “Nothing special about this transformation. I think we can skip the photo this time.”

“Nonsense, I think all the transformations are special. But if you’re not feeling it, I won’t force you.”

“Talk to you next time, Amaya.” Bruce hung up.

There will be no photos taken of teenage Bruce this time around, thank you very much. If it were up to Bruce, there will be zero photos of teenage Bruce from any time. Unfortunately, he’d been dragged to enough public events at this age that his face was plastered across countless magazines and papers. He never did anything to warrant the attention, except being born his parents’ son. His beautiful and attractive parents. And Bruce, who inherited all their best features.

Bruce hit puberty at fourteen. For most people, those lucky enough to have childhoods not marred by trauma, puberty meant acne and gangly limbs and all the awkwardness that comes with growing up. Bruce was said to be blessed with good genes. He never had a bad skin day, and grew tall without the mortifying gangly phase. Youth clung to him but his features sharpened and matured by the day and people noticed.

Bruce wished he could have stayed ignorant of his appearance. That his shared traits with his parents could have just stayed innocent comparisons to the two people he loved most in the world. When having his mother’s lips meant nothing more than sharing her smile. When his eyes were his father’s, and not those of a siren, or harpy, or fox, or whatever else they fancied.

Awful thing, being a beautiful orphan.

Philip did nothing to stop the comments. Bruce had tried using him as an excuse to get away from anyone too wanting, but high society wasn’t made of unobservant fools. Anyone with eyes to see could tell that Philip was uninterested in Bruce’s wellbeing. Yet another fuck up from his uncle that went unaddressed by that piss for brains in his little ‘woe-is-me’ speech.

At fourteen, Bruce was a pretty and delicate thing. He looked like a thing to be taken, and conquered and placed on a shelf.

Bruce did not enjoy being a thing. He had to learn to protect himself. Stick to crowds but not people too familiar with each other, less they gang up on him. Be weird and off-putting but not too weird and off-putting. Be dumb. Not too dumb. Be mean and unpleasant but be a Wayne and live up to your parents’ standards. That’s where Brucie had been born. So that Bruce could parade him around, instead of being the one paraded.

But Brucie wasn’t enough and Bruce hated that he was fourteen. With the agency of a child and yet socially an adult.

Eventually, he got sick of it and ran away. Went off traipsing the globe, while the rest of the world thought he was in some made up boarding school. Bruce told himself it was for grand purpose, but the truth was, at fourteen, Batman hadn’t been anything more than a child’s dream. The truth was, Bruce ran away because he was a coward. And he left behind everything. Alfred and his confusing blend of familiarity and distance. The manor and the comfort and hurt and shelter she offered. Gotham and all that he knew.

Bruce did a very good job of sneaking around the manor. The kids didn’t suspect a thing. As evidenced by the child portion dinner they left for him. Bruce was grateful for the food but it was very little and he was not a little guy. Which led him here, rummaging through the fridge in the dark. At least, it was three in the morning and every one else was asleep. No one there to witness his rat behaviour.

“Bruce?”

Fuck. He jinxed himself.

Bruce shut the fridge door and headed straight for the exit. Maybe if he left fast enough, they’d think he was a hallucination. Gotham knew this family was no strangers to hallucinations.

“Nope! Nuh-uh, not so fast, pretty boy.”

Light flooded the room and Steph began circling him appraisingly.

Pretty boy.

Bruce clenched his fists and scowled. He was not dealing with this bullshit from kids he’d helped raise.

Steph and Tim began interrogating Bruce, and his hackles raised. Bruce was not their prisoner. They had no right to question him when they never told him where they were going every day. He knew nothing about their everyday lives, so what gave them the right to pry into his? And they were never interested before so how dare they act so concerned now?

Fucking sanctimonious bastards. Bruce’s business was not theirs to know about and he needed them to fuck off now.

His tongue, honed into a fine blade, lashed out at the kids and oh, the guilt set in and Bruce was a horrible person, and he should have died in that alleyway before he got the chance to grow into such a piece of shit.

This was why Bruce hated family. They were hypocrites who demanded so much and gave so little and yet, even then, Bruce cared and wanted so much from them. Family made Bruce confused. They abandoned him and yet they remained like mould growing on the walls. He didn’t need them. He wished nothing more than to have a family again.

Bruce hated his fourteen-year-old self.

He ruined everything!

And now Bruce was in trouble. All because that idiot couldn’t stay hidden for one day. Bruce could sneak around for an entire month and not get caught, and that buffoon fumbled in less than twenty-four hours.

He was so mean too! So, not only was Bruce in trouble for sneaking out, he was in trouble for talking back and being rude. The kids didn’t do Time Out but they were going to start now after all the fuck ups Bruce had done.

Bruce had to fix this.

Cookies! The kids loved cookies. If Bruce made enough, they’d soften the blow, right? They won’t be so angry and maybe, Bruce won’t have to grovel and beg for forgiveness. Oh, he hoped so. Bruce couldn’t survive the kids punishing him.

… They weren’t mad? Dick and Barbara didn’t know about his little adventure, and Steph was short with him but she didn’t seem too upset. And after talking to Tim, he seemed to be okay too.

Talking things out seems to be strangely working. Weird. That had never been the case in Bruce’s life before all this.