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It starts with Tim.
Coming out of his depression after Jason is like surfacing half-drowned and finding out you've been transported to the future. It's like sleep walking through your life and suddenly waking up. Dick back at the manor intermittently again—Bruce hazily recalls watching him pull even farther away in the wake of their devastation and being utterly incapable of saying or doing anything to stop him. There's also another tiny, black-haired child dressed as Robin in the Cave, timidly bullying Batman into teaching him to throw a punch and sneaking access to cases. He's half convinced the child is a changeling until he recalls Tim introducing himself as Timothy Drake and remembers the neighbors.
And Tim isn't Jason, but he is a responsibility—Batman can't push himself to patrol until the sun rises when he has a Robin to get to bed. Batman can't skip dinner before patrol and a snack after if he has a too skinny Robin who will politely excuse himself if Batman doesn't eat too. Batman can't patrol every night without a break when he knows Robin will find a way to follow him no matter how exhausted he is. Batman can't keep going after being stabbed or shot or beat all to hell when he has a Robin obviously trying to conceal his panic while trying to get Batman back to the Batcave.
The more he’s forced to care for himself, the more aware Batman feels. The more Bruce he feels. And as he comes back to himself, he can tell there is something wrong with his new little Robin. Tim is skittish, but constantly looking to Batman for approval. He seems to have perfected the art of holding himself still, taking up the least amount of space, and staying out of Batman's direct line of sight when he's not directly interacting, as though trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. Like if Batman forgets he's there, he'll be allowed to stay longer.
Eventually, Bruce realizes that Tim is looking for approval, and when he doesn't get it, he assumes that's because he hasn't earned it. Batman has caught him going over cases he's already solved, checking and double checking evidence and leads when Bruce knows Tim's conclusions are correct. Batman has had to drag Tim off the mat when he's drilling moves Bruce knows he's got down. And the common factor is always, always that Bruce didn't tell him he's doing well, just grunted and nodded and moved on.
It was always enough for Bruce's sons.
So he's recognized the problem and the solution is... obvious. The issue is that Bruce can't always manage to say things the right way. Sometimes he says something he thinks is supportive and affirming, and next thing he knows Dick isn't talking to him or Jason is refusing to be in the same room as him. Or he can't put the feeling into words and the moment passes before he can speak. Or he fails to realize that he was supposed to say something altogether. It's frustrating.
It's so much easier to be Batman, who no one really expects to talk beyond routine sitreps and a handful of stock phrases. It's even easier being Brucie Wayne, who people expect to say stupid things. But if Bruce doesn't figure this out, Tim is going to get hurt, from exhaustion caused by redoing all his perfectly acceptable work if nothing else. And that is unacceptable.
Bruce is considering the issue while idly rummaging through his desk, when he comes across the package shoved in the back of a drawer. Foil stars, in five different colors. He thinks they were purchased back when Dick was little, for a short-lived attempt at getting him to stay off the chandelier- one star per day he stayed off it on a wall calendar. It hadn't worked very well, especially since if memory served they'd tried for over six months, and only twenty-something stars were used. Bruce had eventually just given up and had the chandelier reinforced. In retrospect, the execution was probably at fault. A single shiny sticker was definitely not enough against the lure of the chandelier.
But maybe the underlying concept is sound. Especially when it isn't that Tim's behavior needed to be corrected, just acknowledged. In a tangible way, so he can see how much Bruce appreciates his help. And in a way that didn't require Bruce wasting time by panicking trying to find the right words until the opportunity to speak is lost.
This... this could actually work.
Bruce digs out a pair of scissors and neatly cuts the gold strip of stars off of half a dozen sheets, then moves to the grandfather clock to stash them in a pouch on his utility belt for next patrol.
Next patrol, Batman watches Robin like a hawk, looking for the first opportunity to put his plan into action. Robin seems very apprehensive under his scrutiny, and makes several silly mistakes that Batman knows he knows better than to make. But finally Robin manages to take down a mugger with practically perfect form, allowing the victim to escape unscathed without Batman stepping in. Robin zips back up to the roof easily, and Batman makes his move.
"Good job," he growls. At the same time, he reaches out and sticks a tiny gold star to Robin's shoulder, right below the collar of his cape.
Robin cranes to see the sticker, and tilts his head curiously. "Gold star performance?" he asks, voice sounding tremulous and unsure.
Batman nods curtly. Robin has gone off script for this interaction, but hopefully he's understood enough that Batman doesn't have to explain further.
Tim's smile is a little disbelieving, but also terribly pleased, and Batman relaxes. They continue patrol without further discussion.
By the end of patrol, Tim's cape has a neat little collection of a dozen stars scattered across the shoulders, and Tim's quietly pleased expression as he neatly hangs it up is exactly what Bruce hoped for.
But at this rate, he's going to need more stickers.
Alfred manages to find Bruce a roll of several hundred little gold stars to keep in his belt, which is good because as they all get used to the new system, Tim's collections of stickers grow exponentially.
It's not really because Tim improves, although that happens too. It's more that Bruce gets more comfortable reaching for the stickers every time he has the thought that Tim did well. And as he gets better at recognizing how often he thinks that.
Instead of a single gold star for taking down a mugger like that first time, Robin might come back to the roof and promptly get rewarded with half a dozen or more stars, one for taking down the mugger, one for an unscathed civilian, one for his gentle handling of the victim, and the rest for every time Batman thought, "Oh, good punch," or similar.
Tim's quietly pleased smile slowly turns into a beaming grin. He stops looking apprehensively at Batman practically every time he speaks, and starts acting more confident. The first time he cuts across Batman to correct him while discussing a case, Robin freezes, wide eyed. Bruce is so proud, he can't help giddily sticking a star right to Tim's face, on his cheek below the domino.
The stars come off after each patrol, of course. It's already a bit of a miracle that the adhesive lasts through one night of crime fighting (and it doesn't always) and it definitely doesn't stand up to soap and water. Tim counts every star. Bruce thinks he has a tally going somewhere.
Jim Gordon is pinching his nose like he's warding off a headache, but Batman isn't sure why.
Robin is giving a detailed report on the evidence they've collected on the white-collar side of the weapons-smuggling ring they've been investigating—the people they can't really take down by bursting in swinging in the dead of night, mostly because they're doing their work in office buildings in daylight. It's a good report, mostly covering the organization of the data on the thumb drive he's already handed over and highlighting the most important details.
Batman is looming behind Robin, carefully sticking another star to his cape every time Robin remembers a pertinent detail or Batman remembers how proud he was when Robin figured something during the investigation. There are a lot of stickers already. They glimmer dully in the light spilling out from the roof access door, a constellation like freckles across his cheeks, and a Milky Way from shoulder to shoulder and down his back. It's been a good patrol.
Once he started this sticker thing, it became practically addictive. Tim's a good kid, and watching him absolutely blossom under the constant praise is heartwarming. Bruce is totally crushing this mentoring thing this time around. He feels a pang. Would this have helped his relationship with Jason? Would it have made enough of a difference to stop him from running off to find a new parent? Would he be here now, if Bruce had figured this out earlier?
Tim makes the imperious hand gesture that he's started using when he's saying something he thinks should be obvious, but is covering his bases for people who can't make the same intuitive leaps he can. He never would have dared to do that even months ago, and Bruce feels a surge of pride at how far Tim has come. He sticks another star on Robin's cape.
Gordon catches the movement, and goes back to pinching the bridge of his nose.
Batman really has no idea why he's making that expression. Nothing is happening to bring that level of "why must I deal with Bat-shenanigans" to his friend's face.
Nightwing hangs back with Batman as Robin goes swinging back towards the Batmobile at the end of patrol. Robin shimmers a little in the light of the streetlamps as he goes. He probably doesn't have as many stars as usual, due entirely to the fact that he spent part of patrol tonight with Nightwing while Batman was staking out a possible drug deal, but his shoulders are still liberally sprinkled regardless.
"So... what's with the stickers, B?" Nightwing asks.
Bruce's brain skips and hiccups, unsure how to put it into words. "Later," he growls, hoping Nightwing knows he means "I'll tell you back at home, after I've figured out how to explain."
Nightwing huffs, but agrees, swinging after Robin.
Bruce plans and replans his explanation through the entire ride back to the Cave, and rehearses it the entire time as he goes through his routine of getting out of the Bat suit, showering, changing into clean clothes, waiting for Tim to tally his stars, feeding him a post-patrol snack, and seeing him off home across the lawn. He rejoins Dick at the table to finish his own snack, and finally figures his explanation is as good as it's going to get.
"Tim has—had—awful self-esteem," Bruce launches into the conversation with no warning, and winces as Dick's head shoots up, an incredulous look on his face. He probably should have eased into the topic more slowly. Too late now. "When I first really started accepting him as Robin, he was very timid, and it seemed like he didn't believe me when I said he did a good job? Or I missed the chance to say something, and he'd take that as an indication that he did something wrong? So I found some stickers, and started giving them to him as positive reinforcement. When he does well. So he knows I noticed. It's going well. He has a lot more confidence now."
Dick turns this over in his mind for a moment. "So, they're like...like 'I'm proud of you' stickers?"
Bruce relaxes immediately. "Yes. Exactly." Dick is so smart, Bruce knew he'd get it right away.
Dick leans back in his chair and blows out a breath. "Wow, you're really proud of him, huh?"
"He's a good kid."
Dick is fidgeting with the remaining corner of his sandwich now, shoulders hunched as he thinks. Bruce was hoping for a more enthusiastic reaction, to be honest. He's quite proud of how well this is working. He feels like he's made real strides in the "expressing how proud he is of Robin" department.
Actually, maybe that's the issue?
"You know I'm really proud of you too, right Dick?"
Dick looks up at him apprehensively, and he looks so much like Tim used to at that moment that Bruce wants to kick himself. "Are you?"
"Of—of course, chum! Of course I'm proud of you. So, so proud." To his own frustration, Bruce runs out of words. The pride he feels for Dick is so inexpressively huge, he's practically shaking with it, but as always he's completely incapable of putting it into words. Without realizing it, he's lunged towards Dick, even with the table between them, but finally he gives up on finding more words and collapses back into his chair with a frustrated huff at himself. Dick waits a beat more, and then turns away, obviously not convinced.
Bruce sits there for a moment, completely at a loss on how to communicate with his precious, precious son just how very, extremely proud he is of him, when he remembers that he still has sheets of stars in his desk, green and red and silver and blue. "Wait here," he growls, slamming his chair back and rushing out of the room. It's the work of a moment to grab the package from a drawer, and then he's rushing back to Dick in time to clap a hand on his shoulder and press him back into his chair just as he's making to rise.
He fumbles the sheets out of the package, dropping a few on the floor, but it doesn't matter, and then he starts pressing blue foil stars to Dick's t-shirt. He goes through all the blue stars on the sheets in his hands, thinking of all the times that night he'd felt proud of Dick, then pauses a moment to scoop up the dropped sheets as he casts his mind back farther in time.
He goes to reach for the next star, but there isn't one. He pauses for a moment, thrown out of his pattern. "I don't have enough stars," he announces blankly.
"Are those my 'keep out of the chandelier' stars?" Dick asks, equally blank. When Bruce looks up at him, his eyes are very wide, and his shirt is absolutely covered in stickers.
"Yes," Bruce admits, "that's what gave me the idea, actually."
Dick breaks into laughter, throwing his head back and beaming happily. "Love you too, B," he says, when the laughter peters out, smiling down at his shirt.
Bruce smiles. Dick understands.
He's going to need more blue stars.
By the end of their next joint patrol, Nightwing is just as covered in stars as Robin. They glimmer almost invisibly against the black and blue of his suit, scattered liberally over his chest, shoulders, and back.
Both Nightwing and Robin beam through the entire patrol.
Bruce is getting so much better at this parenting thing.
The first time Bruce takes Tim to a gala is much too soon after he takes custody for his liking. Tim has been through far too much recently, and he's obviously having trouble settling in at the Manor, being part of the family instead of just part of the team.
Unfortunately, the gala has been planned for months, and is taking place at Wayne Manor. It's too late to cancel or change venue, and while technically Tim could beg off due to grieving his parents and just lurk upstairs for the evening, both Bruce and Tim are very aware that Gotham's high society and gossip rags will absolutely eat them alive if he does.
So he's here, dressed in a well-tailored suit, with a tie and pocket square that match both Bruce and Dick's. It's a neon sign proclaiming they're a team, a family, a united front against the rumors and gossip.
That doesn't make it any easier to deal with the vultures, with their sly, faked smiles and barbed words. Bruce is glad he can get away with acting as vacuous and stupid as possible, Brucie Wayne pulled on like armor. Tim has no such recourse, having to face the rabid masses with a straight spine and a bladed tongue. Brucie can avoid topics by pretending the volley has gone over his head and refusing to engage. Tim has to face every attack head on, ready to parry and riposte, going in for the kill will a shark's smile. Janet Drake would never have accepted anything else, and even if Tim had wanted to, it's too late to change tactics now.
Tim deftly slides an insinuation about the possible failure of his hotel into a conversation with Mr. Powers after the man implies Bruce will run Wayne Enterprises into the ground because he's stupid. Powers goes red and excuses himself, and Bruce burns with pride for his son. He wishes he was Batman right now, with his little roll of gold stars close to hand. There are spare rolls in his study, of course, but he couldn't press one to Tim's suit even if he had them. Brucie might be able to get away with plastering his children with stickers in public, but people had already taken note of Robin and Nightwing's stars, and Bruce can't afford any extraneous similarities.
But surely he can do something?
Carefully, he moves his hand from clasping Tim's shoulder to a loose fist at his shoulder blade. Then he deliberately presses down with his thumb mimicking pressing a star onto Robin's cape.
Tim lights up like a little sun.
Bruce smiles.