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The playground was loud in the particular way only late afternoons could be, rubber soles thudding over padded ground, swings creaking in uneven rhythm, children shrieking as if joy had to be announced at maximum volume.
Bruce stood in the middle of it like a man who had survived worse battlefields.
Damian, two and a half years old and determined to conquer every inch of the park, was currently on a toddler swing with his tiny hands wrapped around the chains. His dark curls were windswept, his cheeks flushed pink, and every time Bruce pushed him forward he let out a delighted squeal that turned into a laugh on the way back.
“Higher,” Damian demanded.
“You’re already as high as you’re going,” Bruce said, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth as he gave another careful push.
Nearby, Jason sat inside a bright blue swivel bowl meant for children half his size. At thirteen, long-limbed and awkward in the way boys became before they grew into themselves, he looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of fun. One sneaker dragged against the ground, making the bowl turn lazily every few seconds.
He had insisted he didn’t mind coming.
Bruce hadn’t believed him.
Dick was home working on a group project, and Jason had hovered around the house for twenty minutes pretending not to be bored before finally muttering, “Whatever. I’ll come too.”
So now he was here, rotating slowly in a plastic bowl while Damian lived his best life.
Bruce helped Damian off the swing and guided him toward the miniature seesaw next. Damian climbed on with all the solemn concentration of someone embarking on dangerous work. Bruce took the opposite seat, using barely any weight at all, lifting Damian up and down while the toddler giggled so hard he nearly slipped sideways.
Jason snorted from across the playground.
“You’re ridiculous,” he called.
Bruce glanced at him. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Noted.”
After the seesaw came the sandbox area, where Bruce spread out a small picnic mat beneath partial shade. Damian immediately dropped onto it cross-legged and began organizing his treasures.
Good Luck Bear, green and slightly worn from love.
A small toy airplane with one bent wing that no longer flew properly.
And three pebbles he had apparently decided were important.
Bruce sat on the bench beside the mat, watching while keeping half an eye on Jason, who had migrated from the swivel bowl to lean against the side of the playhouse structure. Other toddlers milled around with their parents nearby, sticky-faced and loud.
For one rare moment, everything was peaceful.
Then a little boy, maybe three years old, round-cheeked and fast, marched straight up to the mat, looked at Damian’s airplane, and snatched it from his hands.
Damian froze.
His lower lip trembled at once, outrage arriving before tears did. He made a wounded little sound and reached after the toy.
“Mine,” he said, voice cracking.
The other child clutched the plane to his chest and ran two steps away.
Bruce stood. “It’s alright, Damian. We can ask for it back.”
But Damian’s eyes filled instantly. He did not care that there were other toys in the world. He did not care about replacement options or reason or diplomacy.
Someone had taken *his* airplane.
“No!” Damian wailed. “Mine!”
Bruce moved forward, already preparing the calm-parent voice he’d learned through hard necessity.
He never got the chance.
Jason straightened from where he’d been slouching against the playhouse wall. In three quick strides he crossed the distance, crouched in front of the startled three-year-old, and removed the airplane neatly from the child’s grip.
The boy stared for half a second.
Then inhaled.
Then screamed.
Jason did not so much as blink. He turned on his heel, walked back to the mat, and placed the plane directly into Damian’s waiting hands.
“There,” he said.
Damian hiccuped through his tears, clutching it to his chest.
Behind them, the other child’s cries escalated into full siren mode.
Bruce closed his eyes briefly.
“Jason.”
“What?” Jason asked. “It was his.”
“That was not the ideal method.”
“It was effective.”
Damian, however, had already decided on the superior sibling. He reached both arms upward in command.
“Jay!”
Jason sighed dramatically, but bent to scoop him up. Damian settled against his shoulder with immediate trust, tears forgotten as quickly as summer rain. Jason carried him toward the little plastic playhouse and sat inside the doorway with Damian in his lap.
The toddler beamed so hard all eight of his tiny front teeth showed.
Jason tapped the tip of Damian’s nose. “You’re forgetting something.”
Damian considered this with grave seriousness.
Then, in careful toddler accent, he said, “Tank oo.”
Jason smirked. “Yeah. That’s right.”
Bruce, meanwhile, was apologizing to the crying child’s embarrassed parents.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sincere if tired. “There was a misunderstanding.”
The mother gave him a look that suggested she doubted that was the word for it, but accepted the returned peace offering of fruit snacks Bruce produced from nowhere.
When he finally turned back, Jason was inside the playhouse making Good Luck Bear speak in a terrible gravelly voice while Damian laughed so hard he could barely breathe.
Jason caught Bruce looking.
“What?” he said defensively.
Bruce sat beside the entrance, one knee drawn up. “Nothing.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing that face.”
“What face?”
“The smug dad face.”
“I don’t have a smug dad face.”
“You absolutely do.”
Damian shoved Good Luck Bear into Bruce’s hands and demanded, “Again!”
So Bruce made the bear talk. Jason rolled his eyes. Damian shrieked with delight.