Work Text:
Duke thinks this is what going insane is like.
He's currently standing in the kitchen, missing a slipper because it had somehow flung itself under his bed and it was far too early in the morning to go crawling around for it, staring dejectedly at the open fridge. There's someone standing in the opening, light shining down on them.
Given Damian's the only one small enough to constitute as anything looking down at them, Duke is slightly concerned, because the kid standing at the fridge is definitely not Damian. Damian is sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, a steaming mug of tea in his hands.
The boy in question notices Duke shuffling into the room, squinting in confusion, "Why are you awake?"
Duke frowns. He knows he's up earlier, or later, or whatever-er than usual given the kitchen light is on and the windows outside show nothing but dark empty fields for miles. Even the garden lights are off, so Alfred is still asleep.
But Damian is sitting at the island. On further inspection, Tim is also slumped on top of the counter, head hidden behind the fruit bowl in the centre. They're both still in uniform, minus the masks.
"What time is it?" Duke mumbles, rubbing his eyes in further confusion. He's not entirely sure he's not dreaming right now.
The confusion is further developed when the little stranger standing in front of the fridge turns around, holding a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice that is far too big and heavy for them to hold steadily, "Half past three."
"Oh my god," Duke states loudly, suddenly very awake, turning to Damian with wide eyes, "Is that—?"
"Some of us are dying of concussions over here," Tim grumbles from his corpse-like position, waving a hand in Duke's general direction.
He is completely ignored as Damian grimaces, holding the warm mug of tea to his forehead, "Father was hit by a magic user on patrol."
"Me," Little Bruce clarifies, stumbling to try and place the jug of orange juice on the island without spilling it all over himself, "I'm father."
It's worse than Duke could have ever assumed, but he kind of can't stop smiling, "His memories have regressed too?"
Damian sighs, "Yes. He's currently eight."
"Eight and a half," Bruce corrects petulantly, frowning at Damian, which is hilarious because Damian glares back with the exact same expression.
Damian clicks his teeth, opting to ignore tiny Bruce (who's now pulling one of the island stools towards the cabinets, screeching the wooden legs against the tile and making Tim jolt like he's being electrocuted), as he turns back to Duke, "You never answered. Why are you awake? We tried our best to not wake you."
Duke doesn't really have an interesting answer for Damian's suspicions. It was just one of those nights, dreamless (thankfully) but restless. He had woken up earlier as well, but could thankfully daydream himself back into darkness. This time when he woke up, his throat was dry and his eyes were itchy, and a cold glass of water from the fridge sounded like salvation in the middle of the desert.
He shrugs in lieu of a response, eyeing the way Bruce climbs onto the stool with shaky movements, leaning against the counter to reach the cabinet. The stool shakes.
Tim stretches forward and sits up with a sigh, which lets Duke see the large bruise across the side of his face.
"Oh shit," Duke hisses, then wincing to himself when Damian narrows his eyes at him, and then at tiny Bruce, "Uh, sorry. What happened to you?" He asks Tim.
Damian's overall demeanour of indifference and slight annoyance changes immediately at Duke's question, and he does a poor job of hiding his smirk behind his mug of tea. Tim stares at him, evidently unimpressed.
"Turns out B's reflexes weren't zapped out of him like his height was," Tim sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool countertop, "After he got hit I tried to get him out of the fight and ended up getting socked in the face by an eight year old."
Duke almost bursts out laughing at the mental imagery of that, but he sees Bruce freeze out the corner of his eye, looking incredibly guilty for it.
The only problem is, he was halfway to reaching the cups when the sudden jolt threw him off balance. He cries out, a quiet yelp of surprise as the stool starts to lean backwards, taking eight year old Bruce with it.
Damian drops his half-drunk mug of tea onto the counter with a clatter, "Father!"
He would have been fine, realistically.
In fact, if he had fallen, he would have just landed on top of Tim and probably given him another bruise, but Duke doesn't doubt that Tim wouldn't have caught him regardless. But Duke's instincts kick in quickly, and suddenly, he's across the room and clutching the back of Bruce's shirt (an old one of Damian's, judging by the material) as the stool crashes to the ground with a clatter.
"Wow there," Duke says, gently helping Bruce get both feet on the ground as he smooths out the folds of his shirt, "You alright?"
Sparing a look to the side shows both Tim and Damian out of there seats as well, looking ready to leap over the island if need be. Tim's suddenly very alert, regardless of the painful looking bruise on his cheek, and Damian's never been good at hiding panic on his face once Duke figured out what to look for.
Duke then kneels down in front of Bruce, who's gone unnaturally still. It's strange, to look at him and somehow see someone so unfamiliarly recognisable. Eight year old Bruce's eyes are much brighter than his adult ones, far more expressive.
Duke is stunned to see actual fear in Bruce's eyes, wide and unblinking.
"He's okay," Duke offers, forcing his eyes away from Bruce's shaking pupils and back to Tim and Damian, watching their shoulders relax slightly, before turning back to the almost nine year old, "You're okay. Just a slip, that's all. Does anything hurt?"
Bruce's eyes are bigger than Duke has ever thought them capable of being, and the way he stares up at Duke would be uncanny if it wasn't unsettlingly familiar to his older counterpart, "No. Can you help me get a glass, please?"
For a moment, the request doesn't process, until he remembers why they're even in this predicament.
"Sure," Duke smiles, standing to his feet to grab a glass, "Do you want me to pour you the juice?"
Bruce looks slightly offended by the question, like he can't believe Duke would question his juice-pouring capabilities. It's a little funny how quickly kids move on from things, because while Tim and Damian still look slightly concerned, Bruce has moved onto the next challenge of pouring juice.
With a grin, Duke passes the glass over and holds his hands up in surrender, letting the kid walk back to the island where the juice awaits next to Tim.
With proof that Bruce is otherwise uninjured, Tim sits back down, huffing, "The spell is supposed to wear off after a couple hours. So let's hope he wakes up normal again."
Damian doesn't outwardly agree, but his scrunched up nose seems inclined to do so. He snags his cup and walks over to the sink with a tired sigh.
Duke feels bad for them, but more pressingly, he's worried about the much tinier Bruce who has suddenly closed himself off. The kid's face gives nothing away as he shakily kneels on one of the kitchen stools to pour a hearty glass of orange juice. He doesn't look particularly happy about being spoken about as if he's not there, but he doesn't make a point to argue about it like other kids might.
It makes Duke wonder if Tim and Damian are really this bad at looking after a kid, or if it's because this kid is Bruce that's got them acting so strange.
Slowly, Bruce sits back down on the stool, and Duke watches wearily as it wobbles for a second. When it settles, the kid reaches out, and Duke smiles at the proud glint in his eyes.
But instead of gulping down his well deserved juice after all that hassle, Duke watches as Bruce carefully slides it across the island, gentle as to not let it spill over the sides. He stops it right next to Tim's elbow.
Little Bruce reaches out to tap Tim gently, calling out a quiet yet confident, "Timothy."
"Tim's just fine, Bruce," Tim grumbles, raising his head off the cool counter to peer up at the boy and then the juice quizzically, "Is this… for me?"
Bruce nods, suddenly embarrassed as he hops off the stool and almost slips on the kitchen tile for his troubles, "Yes. I'm sorry for hitting you. It wasn't on purpose."
Tim blinks. He blinks again. It goes on for long enough that even Duke is beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"I'm sure Tim didn't think you did it on purpose," Duke consoles when Tim makes no move to say the same, not that Bruce seems intent to believe him as he toddles off to sit on the ground beside the cereal cabinet, "Right, Tim?"
Tim still looks a bit dazed when he nods, "Yeah. Um, yes. Thank you, Bruce."
"You're welcome," the boy says quietly, gently picking at the side of the cabinet.
Damian's taking far too long to wash his one singular cup, so Duke knows he's just about used up all his senses in looking after the kid and is now looking for an escape. Duke also realises that Tim and Damian have been awake for almost twenty four hours at this point.
"So," Duke says loudly, making everyone startle awake from where all three are slowly starting to fall asleep, "What's to say we tuck Bruce in and all head to bed?"
"Fantastic idea," Damian announces, finally putting down his cup and drying his hands.
Suddenly, Bruce shoots up from the ground, looking alarmed, "I'm hungry!"
Duke is as stunned by the sudden outburst as Tim, who splutters a confused, "You just ate a protein bar."
"You gave an eight year old a protein bar?" Duke frowns, momentarily distracted.
"It's the only edible thing I had in my belt," Tim shrugs, turning his attention back to Bruce, holding up his glass of orange juice, "Here, how about you drink the juice, okay?"
"The juice is for you," Bruce stresses, and to just about everyone's horror, his bottom lip begins to wobble.
Damian rushes across the room so quickly Duke's head spins, the youngest of the three slapping Tim on the arm hurriedly, "Drake, quickly drink your juice. Drink it."
Tim wastes no time before he's just about pouring the entire glass down his throat, Damian urging him to hurry as he stares at the way Bruce's eyes begin to turn glassy.
"Mmmh," Tim coughs, downing the last of the juice before dropping the glass back onto the counter with a clatter, "That was — ugh — so good!"
Duke watches the entire affair with an arched brow. Bruce shifts under his gaze, fiddling with his fingers and the hem of Damian's too long shirt on him.
"Bruce, are you really hungry?" Duke decides to test his suspicions, "Or do you just not want to go to bed?"
It's just about the worst thing he could have said, apparently. For a moment, Bruce looks shocked to be found out, and then without another warning, promptly bursts into tears. He doesn't start screaming or throwing himself around, but he does collapse onto the ground in a heap of snot and tears.
A pained whine escapes his throat and with alarm, Duke turns to his brothers.
Tim is gaping in shock or horror, maybe both, orange juice dribbling down his chin. Damian actually looks scared.
"Alfred," the three say simultaneously, before Damian runs out of the kitchen towards Alfred's room, causing Bruce's sobbing to start escalating in volume.
"I would have appreciated being told immediately," Alfred scolds gently, looking more exasperated than disappointed, "Instead of moments after the disaster."
He's cradling little Bruce against his chest, the boy's face pressed into his shoulder. It should be surreal, if not at least a little strange, to witness, but instead, Tim finds it looks completely natural.
Tim would never dare call Alfred old, only in fear for what might await in his breakfast smoothie if he tried, but Alfred isn't as young as he used to be. And yet, the moment Alfred had come rushing down the steps into the kitchen, Damian hot on heels, he had suddenly looked years younger.
In one fell swoop, he gathered the boy into his arms. Bruce melted into the position, much to everyone's shared surprise, and while the crying didn't stop, it had significantly decreased.
"He was alright until we suggested bedtime," Duke says quietly, not wanting to disturb Bruce's calmness and set him off again, "He just — started crying. Real hard."
"Is he injured?" Is Damian's immediate response following that. Tim wants to be a little amused that that's where Damian's concerns jump to, but the boy looks so devastatingly serious Tim can't even find the humour in it.
His own stomach feels like it's in knots as Bruce whines quietly, rubbing his face deeper into Alfred's sleep shirt, both hands covering his ears. It looks like he's trying to block out everything around him.
"No, my boy, he's not hurt," Alfred sighs, relaxing a little as he gently starts to rock from side to side, "You said Master Bruce was eight?"
"And a half," Tim offers quietly. It feels important. Bruce would have appreciated the sentiment.
Alfred smiles knowingly at him, "Master Bruce has had trouble sleeping for the past few months, then. It's not anyone's fault."
It hits the three of them like a train, all at once. If Bruce was eight and a half, it would mean that less than six months ago did he watch his parents die.
Suddenly, Tim feels the overwhelming urge to open the fridge and drink the entire jug of orange juice. The swirling sensation of guilt and sadness only increases when Bruce slowly removes his hands from his head, turning slightly to look at the three of them with big blue eyes.
It's almost uncanny. The idea that there was a time Bruce was this young. All of Tim's life Bruce Wayne has been nothing but enormous. Whether that be due to his name and what it meant in a place like Gotham, or years later when Tim realised he was Batman. The man was always someone to look up to, both metaphorically and literally.
But now, before Alfred had come in, Tim was the eldest in the room. His two teenage brothers and his eight year old father.
It wasn't a pleasant feeling. It's not any better now knowing Bruce is freshly grieving his parents, all at the sensitive age of eight. He's still got some baby teeth. He can barely walk in a straight line without looking like he's going to crash into a wall.
He had also apologised for punching him and poured him some juice.
"How can we —" Tim starts, then stops, gathering his thoughts more clearly before he tries again, "Is there anything we can do? To make it easier for him?"
Alfred doesn't seem surprised at all about Tim's urgency to help another version of Bruce. It's something he's always been good at. An instinctive responsibility almost, only this time the morals of it are a little less self deprecating since he's caring for a child.
Bruce watches them curiously, sniffling away tears as Alfred shifts him onto his hips, groaning softly at the weight that has settled against him now that the initial adrenaline rush was gone, "Well, Master Bruce and I were going to sleep together in the den. Maybe have a fire going. A story or two. Does that sound pleasant, Master Bruce?"
With his free hand, Alfred gently wipes the remains of tears off Bruce's damp cheeks as the boy nods, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, Tim is hit with an odd sense of nostalgia at the way his hair spikes up at the front, looking almost startlingly similar to Damian a few years ago.
He wonders what Damian was like at eight years old. Tim admits with reservation that it was probably very different to eight year old Bruce. After all, he remembers what ten year old Damian was like.
He spares a quick look at the boy in question, who doesn't look any less concerned, standing right next to him. Duke is on his other side, looking far less stressed, but still too on edge to truly relax after Bruce's meltdown.
"Would you boys like to join us?" Alfred asks with familiar gentleness. It's not an order, it's hardly a demand.
Just an opportunity. A chance.
"Yes," Tim decides for the three of them, to which neither Damian nor Duke object, "We will."
When Damian wakes up, he's only slightly horrified to realise it's probably the best sleep he's had in weeks.
The horror only grows when it becomes apparent that he is stuck in place, due to the way Duke has a leg thrown over his torso, pinning him down and snoring obnoxiously off to the side. Above him, Tim's head is close to his own. A simple flick and Damian could easily headbutt him and send him flying off the sofa bed the three were squeezed onto it.
Damian only debates it for a moment. He appreciates the warmth emitting from all around him currently and isn't exactly eager to lose it all, yet.
The night before, or hours earlier, hadn't gone at all as he had expected. A patrol night with Batman and Robin isn't usually as exciting as this on average. The only difference was Red Robin's patrol would cross over with theirs near downtown. So if anything, Damian was expecting much worse.
It was at that point of patrol convergence did the excitement suddenly become a code red sort of magic disaster. Luckily enough, the magic user was more desperate than maniacal on the evil scale, as they pretty much gave themselves up — not before getting at least one cheap spell thrown into the fight.
Robin wonders if Batman couldn't have at least tried to dodge the spell. Or, if he purposely changed trajectories in order to get the brunt of it and not let it knock into something, or someone , else. Luckily, Damian was then tasked with a three-foot something sized sort of problem that took most of his focus.
Then came the kitchen disaster, followed by the den.
Duke, and surprisingly Tim, had become ridiculously sappy about the entire affair. Jokingly calling it a post patrol sleepover (as if they all didn't already live in the same house) (actually, Tim didn't even live here anymore, why is he still here?).
Alfred had pulled out the sofa bed for the three of them, suddenly opening a small cupboard in the room that Damian had never noticed before, pulling out a stack of blankets and comforters. Although it was obvious the den hadn't been used for this purpose in a long time, the sheets were fresh and pressed.
He then briefly set down small-father on the sofa bed as he made a small fire, already starting a tale about a boy and his adventures of meeting an array of woodland creatures as he worked. Tim seemed to know the story as well.
Despite having had the most sleep out of all of them, Duke was the first one to knock out. Damian suppressed the urge to smother him and his incessant snoring with a pillow only because it greatly amused small-father every time Duke's snoring rumbled the sofa.
The same small-father, who, suddenly encompassed with a warm fire and familiar voice, slumped against Damian to listen to the story. Damian is sure he's never been more still in his life, letting the eight year old lean against him as his eyes slowly drooped and opened again.
Tim definitely took a few pictures, looking idiotically amused, but after a while even he got comfortable and listened intently to the story.
After a while, small-father was definitely asleep, or close to it, since Alfred gently scooped him off Damian and into his own arms, grunting as he took a seat in the armchair closest to the fire and beside the sofa bed.
Damian had sighed in relief, ready to pack up and move to his own bed. Now that the child was asleep, the crisis was averted and everyone could retire to their own beds.
Except, even after the boy was definitely out cold and snoring softly against Alfred's chest, the butler did not stop in his storytelling. His voice was much quieter, just above a whisper, but didn't look eager to end this moment and send everyone off to bed.
Oddly stunned, Damian looked over to Tim, who was laying flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. While not asleep, he was still listening to Alfred's story, or maybe he was just enjoying the warmth of sleeping on a too-small sofa bed and a fire — either way, he wasn't eager to move as well.
Damian isn't sure why that is what prompted him to lay back and stay for the story. The story he didn't even hear the end of, given he fell asleep.
With a sigh, Damian gently shifts to the side, trying not to wake either of his brothers whose first instinct is to attack whatever it is that has awoken them. He expected to see Alfred sat in the arm chair with small-father curled onto his chest.
Instead, Damian blinks in surprise, "Father," he breathes out quietly.
It's his father, the grown kind, sitting in the armchair instead. He's not wearing Damian's clothes anymore, which definitely would not have fit his grown size, meaning it must have been some time since he switched back to his original form. He's dressed in his own pair of comfortable trousers and a loose grey shirt, holding his work tablet in one hand and a coffee in the other.
At Damian's soft call, Bruce looks over at him, carefully placing both the coffee and the tablet down on the table in front of him.
"Damian," the man rumbles, tiredness still laced into his words, "Did you sleep well?"
The surprise of seeing his actual father fades, finally replaced with an odd sort of relief. It hadn't been more than twelve hours since they saw each other last, but childishly, Damian is glad to have him back.
"Yes. Are you well?" Damian replies.
Bruce smiles, something small and personal, amused by Damian's bed hair and the way Tim shifts in his sleep to throw an arm over Damian's shoulder, "Yes, son. I'm okay."
That's all that's really needed for them. If Duke had woken up first, Bruce's sure the boy would have immediately proposed breakfast and maybe an early jog around the estate to make sure everything was alright. Tim would have definitely not let anyone escape until all his questions about Bruce's vitals were answered.
But with Damian, it's always been as simple as this. Are you well? It's something that is more than enough for them.
It's why Bruce is a little surprised when his youngest hums in thought, before hesitantly suggesting, "We should do this again."
Bruce arches a brow, surprised, "Sleep in the den?"
"Yes," Damian agrees, not offering anything else. He shifts again so his face is hidden into the side of Tim's arm, no doubt embarrassed at expressing that this sleepover was actually fun. The movement makes Duke snort in his sleep, before he too settles against Damian's back.
Bruce grabs his cup of coffee and takes a sip to hide his growing smile.