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Five times Jason lets himself into the Manor and one time he used the front door. Ready... Set... Go.
Canon: Jason breaks into Wayne Manor when he feels like it
Batman Eternal #10
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Brain now insists a story about:
Bruce taking a nap in the back seat while Dick drives. Doesn't matter that he's driving like a maniac and having a grand ol' time. The trust is absolute and the man is exhausted.
Nightwing #112 variant cover by Dan Mora
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Writing goals: A story for each space. Bring it, brain.
what else is on the 'vigilante bingo' card??
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Silhouette (Batober 2023 #27)
“I’m Batman.” A straight, serious delivery. Dick stood with his head high and his shoulders square, confidence hanging from his frame like the well-worn cape. Having donned the cowl the night previous, he’d had plenty of recent practice. He was believable in every detail.
“Fuck that. I’m Batman.” The statement was cavalier but declared with no less confidence. Jason voice was naturally deeper than Dick’s and he didn’t have to exaggerate to match Bruce’s range. The cowl didn’t quite fit right thought and he’d chosen to stick with the red on grey combination, making it his own.
“You guys are losers. I’m Batman.” Tim had put on a late growth spurt and although he wasn’t nearly as tall as his brothers, he made an impressive presentation. The suit was solid black and professionally crafted and his lean muscles had grown in mass over the summer. Bruce wondered wistfully when his boy had grown into a man.
Cass flipped them off and then pointed with enthusiasm to herself. The platform boots gave her an extra five inches in height and she certainly had presence. She’d comically acquired a chest plate with a six pack fashioned out of plastic and thrust back her shoulders, emphasizing her physique. Then she flexed her biceps proudly. Bruce grinned.
Damian crossed his arms and glowered, clad comfortably in his Robin costume, daring his father to question his choice. He’d refused to participate in the farce, stating with an edge to his voice that someday he would be Batman. Pretending was ridiculous.
There was a pause. Then from behind them, Alfred cleared his throat. None of them had realized he’d joined them. He too was wearing the cape and cowl he used for emergency rescues. Dick started laughing. Jason snorted. Tim and Cass both smiled. Damian looked as if he was ready to murder the butler.
“You too, Alfred?” Bruce was thoroughly enjoying the theatrics.
“Always be yourself, sir.”
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It's that time again! Happy Halloween, everybody.
It’s the annual Wayne Enterprises Halloween Trick or Treat Trek!
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Your page is so underrated
Your posts are amazing
Your writing is incredible
You deserve more attention and readers
I love your page ❤️❤️
Thank you! I'm glad you've been enjoying the stories.
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Matches (BWWeek 2023 and Batober 2023)
“Matches around?”
The barkeep squared him up. “Who’s askin’?”
“A friend.”
“A friend, huh?” Dubiousness dripped, like beer from a leaky tap.
Clark didn’t offer any clarification.
“Why don’t you have a seat down there at the end of the bar. Who knows? Maybe you might get lucky. What’ll ya have?”
Halfway through a beer he wasn’t the least bit interested in drinking, a familiar heartbeat walked into the dive.
“Bejesus. What the hell are you doing here? Thought I told you to leave and never come back.” Matches dropped himself down on the neighboring stool, their shoulders nearly touching.
Clark didn’t bother casting his glance sidelong. He already knew what he’d find.
The cheap suit and sunglasses were ubiquitous, the mustache all too natural looking in appearance. The tie clashed with absolutely everything, but the knot was tidy. A Swan Vesta bobbed between his lips, his tongue making a plaything of the match inside his mouth.
“You neglected the ‘never come back’ part.”
“Oh did I now? My fuckin’ mistake. Get lost, doll face.”
“What if I want to finish my beer?”
Matches scoffed. “We both know you didn’t come here for no lousy beer.”
The barkeep opened his mouth to protest.
“Shut up. Nobody asked you.”
He didn’t bother to look affronted. Instead, he wiped down the countertop and moved further away. Even with the extra distance, there was no pretense of privacy.
Matches leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “There’s piss poor beer and then there’s that.”
“It’s not the greatest,” Clark conceded.
“But you were willin’ to risk it. Again.”
“Maybe it’s growing on me.”
“That shit doesn’t grow on anybody. Trust me. I’ve had my fair share.”
“Why do you keep coming back here if the drinks are so terrible?”
“Everybody’s got a place. And this is my kinda place.” He shifted the match, sliding it to the other side, before announcing, “You on the other hand-“
Clark rotated his glass and watched condensation roll lazily down the exterior.
“Let me guess,” he started, his voice full of derision. “Problems with the sugar daddy.”
Clark glanced up sharply. “He’s not my-“
“Yeah, yeah. Here’s the thing, kid. I’m not a therapist. Hell, I’m not even a bartender. I’m not gunna listen to your woes, blow smoke up your skirt, and tell you everything is gunna work itself out. Go home.” He paused for a second before adding, “Or don’t. It’s no skin off my back.”
Clark finally pushed the glass away and crossed his arms atop the bar. He couldn’t hide an expression if his life depended upon it and right that moment, he looked miserable.
“Me? I’d stick around if only for the cash. But we all get our kicks differently. If you’re not happy, maybe you should dump his rich ass.”
“No.” The answer was quiet but unequivocal.
“See. Ya don’t need me after all. Problem solved.”
“We haven’t talked in-“
“I don’t wanna know.”
“There’s so much-“
“Not listening.”
“- I want to say.”
“Then why are you still sitting here like a shmuck?”
Clark seemed to sink further down on his stool, dropping his chin to rest on his crossed arms. “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.
“Geez Louise,” Matches grumped, shaking his head in disgust. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a disaster?”
A sad smile crept to his lips. “All the time.”
#brucewayneweek2023#batober 2023#stories instead of drawings#Bruce Wayne#Clark Kent#Prompt: Undercover#Prompt: Matches Malone#Matches Malone#prompt fill
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Hurt
He woke with no clear memory of closing his eyes. Not a new experience by any means but always a red flag. The mattress beneath him felt right, like the one installed in the cave. The ceiling was wrong and the viewing angle was more upright than Alfred usually allowed. Thirty degrees difference meant that he was neither completely horizontal nor seated upright.
It took him far longer than it should have to sort out what he was seeing. He’d designed the facility, had overseen its construction, but had never made use of it. Until now. Swimming through the thick haze of painkillers delayed all conclusions and muddled his thinking. But that was to be expected. If he was here. In bed. Floating.
He turned his inspection inward and found pain everywhere, dialed down to its lowest levels. The good stuff, then. The thought didn’t disturb him. Even through the painkillers, his chest ached and his lungs felt unusually tight. A rush of air swept into his nose. Supplemental oxygen through a cannula. The lines rested high on his cheeks.
Without thought, he raised his hand to feel them. Two of his fingers were buddied together, one in a splint. Holding them up in front of his face, he stared at them blankly, reaching back into his memories to find the when and how. Nothing surfaced. He breathed out and settled his hand back on the mattress.
“How are you feeling?”
Clark’s voice. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone. More evidence to support he wasn’t at his best. He might have startled but he was fairly sure he wasn’t capable at the moment. Bruce rolled his head to get the first glimpse of his friend. Who was still wearing the suit. Sitting next to him. Who’d probably been sitting with him for a while. J’onn was present in the background, his back to them both.
Bruce grumped a displeased sound. “High.”
A smile crept to Clark’s face, relief relaxing the lines of worry around his eyes. “You punctured a lung. J’onn was able to get the bleeding under control.”
A noncommittal response followed. That explained a lot.
“You’ve been stable for about two hours but we’re keeping a close eye. Your blood oxygen dipped pretty low. It’s probably why you finally passed out. We wouldn’t have known something was seriously wrong if you hadn’t.”
Certainly sounded like him. Keep functioning until the choice was no longer an option.
“Try not to move too much if you can help it. We don’t want your broken ribs to shift.” Clark’s statement was strained and the worried look had returned in full force. Bruce had the vague impression he was missing something of importance. Broken ribs weren’t uncommon. Neither were bruised ribs. He wasn’t sure what Clark was so concerned about.
“When were you going to tell us? Were you going to tell us at all?”
Were they really going to do this right now? Bruce sighed and closed his eyes.
“Bruce?”
“Shut up, Clark. I’m going back to sleep.”
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(a/n: Double fill for Batober #11 and Bruce Wayne Week 2023 - Injured Bruce. Set after “Crisis on Two Earths”.)
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Spooked
A sharp, stuttering intake of breath brought all movement in the kitchen to an instant stop. The knife fell and clattered on the cutting board next to a pile of diced potatoes. A half second later, Alfred was standing at the sink, the water running, one hand applying pressure to the other. It took that same amount of time for the remaining occupants of the room to process, overcome their momentary shock, and come back to life.
Bruce’s hands immediately found Alfred’s under the running water, his gaze intent upon the older gentleman’s pinched face. Four voices started talking all at once, overlapping each other, each concerned in their own unique way.
“Al, are you-“
“What can we-“
“The hell happened-“
“Pennyworth-“
They went in circles, cool heads and sound decisions forgotten amid their worry. They pressed for answers, verbally encroaching.
Alfred inhaled deeply, centered himself against the onslaught, and forced his shoulders to drop. His heartbeat pulsed insistently in his carved-up thumb. The pressure echoed in his ears. He opened his eyes and glanced up at Bruce, a wordless request passing between them.
“Boys. Give us a minute, please.” The gentle request was neither loud nor insistent, offsetting the urgency that had whipped itself into a frenzy. It cut through the wall of comments and inquiries and brought their runaway reactions back to sensibility.
Dick put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “We’ll go set the table.”
Damian shot his older brother a scathing glare before taking one last look at his father and Alfred.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Tim announced.
“I got brunch covered.” Jason reached for the bloody knife and set it aside to wash later. He grabbed a new knife out of the block, transferred the uncontaminated food to a new cutting board, and continued like nothing had happened.
Once the children had left the room or put themselves to task, Bruce returned his attention to Alfred. “Let’s have a look.”
“Bloody careless,” he muttered under his breath, more irritated at himself than in pain. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cut himself while preparing a meal. Years had passed. Perhaps a decade.
“Accidents happen.”
The reminder earned Bruce a glare that nearly rivaled Damian’s. The thought that his youngest had likely learned it from both of them made him affectionately smile.
“Let’s see,” he tried again, flipping off the water.
Tim reappeared at his elbow, first aid kit in hand. He placed it down on the counter within reach, glancing down at the blood dripping in the sink. A pained sound formed at the base of his throat before he hesitantly retreated.
Alfred stopped squeezing the tip of his thumb and raised it for inspection. The moment the pressure was gone, the bleeding intensified. Along with it came a new level of miserable throbbing.
Bruce evaluated the depth, the cut running wide and parallel to the nail. “Would benefit from a couple stitches.”
“Ridiculous. The strips will be more than sufficient.”
Jason snorted in the background, his dicing motions smooth and steady.
“Jay-“
“Nothing. Didn’t say a word. Ignore me. I’m not here.”
Bruce looked Alfred in the eye, saw the headache forming from the adrenaline crash and the pain, the unspoken desire for the whole encounter to be over and done. “Are you sure?”
He went back to squeezing the two edges of the wound shut. “Master Bruce-“
“Usually it’s you stitching me up.”
It was just the right amount of irony said with the perfect amount of levity. “Quite,” he retorted, returning to his senses with a resigned sigh. He took another look for himself, sliding into a more clinical frame of mind. If this were Bruce’s flesh or one of the boys, his opinion would certainly match. Never accept a half measure when there is time to address the issue properly. “Forgive a foolish old man.”
His son’s expression softened. “Nothing to forgive.”
Tim slid a suture kid in on top of the first aid kit, anticipating the need before it was requested. Then like a shadow, the teenager was gone again.
With a degree of detached professionalism, Bruce set to work right then and there. He scrubbed and donned fresh gloves, unfolded a sterile pad on the kitchen countertop, and stripped open the packages sealed in plastic. Once he had what he needed all laid out, Alfred rested his hand palm up in the middle of the staged area. As he waited for the finger to numb, he groused about the uncleanliness of performing impromptu surgery on a surface usually reserved for food.
Alfred kept his kitchen meticulously clean and they both knew it. “I’ll wipe it down with bleach when we’re done.”
The promise seemed to mollify the butler.
He prodded gently at the base of Alfred’s thumb. “Another minute?”
It no longer felt like the tip of his finger was the size of a football and the top of his head about to blow. The pressure applied to the uninjured portion hardly registered. “This should be adequate.”
“Let’s wait.” There was no misjudging the statement as suggestion. If another moment meant the difference between ‘adequate’ and completely deadened, Bruce would fight for that lapse of time.
His patient accepted the decision without demur. Soon enough, the work began beneath his watchful eye, the bleeding tapering off. Unexpectedly, his vision tilted and a profuse sweat broke out on his skin. “Oh.”
Bruce glanced up in alarm. “Jason!”
It took only a second for his son to register Alfred’s suddenly sheet white complexion. He ditched his self-appointed task and grabbed the nearest chair. Using his foot to finish dragging it into place, he slipped both hands under Alfred’s shoulders and guided him down. Then he threw open the freezer door and found an ice pack. Ripping the hand towel off its hook, he wrapped it haphazardly and settled it on the back of his grandfather’s neck. He stationed himself to the right, stabilizing Alfred between his own body and the kitchen counter, using a hand to keep the ice pack in position. Both he and Bruce waited with bated breath.
Color crept back and the faint feeling lessened. Alfred swallowed the lump in his throat and took a measured breath, willing his vision to cooperate. He reached up with his uninjured hand and took control of the ice pack, shifting it to a new position. Jason squeezed his shoulder, relieved they weren’t picking him up off the floor, and went in search of orange juice.
Bruce was completely still, watching Alfred with an intense gaze. He’d paused all work on the thumb and was holding it steady, his own gloved hands spotted with his surrogate father’s blood.
“That was… unpleasant,” Alfred muttered. A straw appeared in his periphery. Obediently, he took a sip. Then another. Between the ice and the sugar, it wasn’t long before his condition improved significantly. He took in Bruce’s expression and registered the tightly controlled anxiety.
“It’s been a rather eventful morning. I think perhaps I’ll take the rest of the day off.”
Jason huffed in amusement.
Bruce’s shoulders relaxed. The rest of his body incrementally followed. Soon after, he tied the last stitch, cleared away the excess blood, and made short work of the bandaging. He watched as Alfred raised the wounded digit to his chest, resting it above the level of his heart. The local was beginning to wear off. “Jay, could you get him some Tylenol?”
“Sure thing.”
“And then check with your brothers. Talk amongst yourselves and decide what you want for lunch. Order something and have it delivered.”
Jason was taken aback. “I can-“
“I know you can. I know. Just- Please.” His voice sounded tired. Spent. He clearly didn’t want a fight. He dropped the needle in the middle of the used suture kit and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on top of the pile. Then he folded the decimated protective pad over the whole lot and ferried the bundle to the trash can.
Alfred remained silent.
Jason realized the request had very little to do with the food. Bypassing the first aid kit, he retrieved two tablets from the bottle kept over the stove and handed them off.
“Thank you, my boy.”
“I’ll be back in 15 minutes,” he informed them both, his defiant tone daring them to argue.
Bruce nodded wearily. Alfred offered no objection. Jason departed to do as he was told. Once he was gone, Bruce turned to wash his hands one final time, buying himself a moment to process.
“The counter can wait. Pull over another chair and sit down.”
He retrieved a fresh towel from the drawer, dried off, and deposited the replacement on the vacated hook. Across from Alfred he placed the second chair but instead of seating himself, he elevated the older man’s legs and crouched down beside him.
“I daresay I spooked you.” He was starting to sound more and more like himself, a brightness returning to his eyes.
Bruce leaned his forehead against Alfred’s upper arm and breathed out. “Let’s never do that again.”
“Agreed.”
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(a/n: This was a double prompt fill: Bruce Wayne Week 2023 – Dr. Wayne and Batober #3 – Spooked.)
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Fic: Imitating Life (DC, Batman)
Bruce and Jason, fluff, Bruce being a good dad, Bruce isn’t always good at communicating, Agatha Christie references, language warning because... Jason.
He’d made his rounds earlier, checking in on each of the children currently residing under his roof. It seemed to change from month to month, sometimes week to week. Cass had left and come back again. So had Tim. Damian was away at the farm. Dick had even stayed for a few days not that long ago, desperately needing down time. He’d since flown the coop. The rest he’d found by location tracker before leaving the cave. Knowing where they all were helped him sleep at night.
Hours later, he was halfway into a reread of an old mystery when the door to his bedroom opened. Light from the bedside lamp dimly lit the tallest of his children, missing all of his protective gear and guns. He was clad in only a t-shirt and a pair of sweats. His feet were bare. Bruce could tell without registering the damp hair that his second eldest had at least run himself through the shower before dragging himself upstairs. Jason didn’t meet his gaze or offer a greeting as he trudged toward the bed. Without hesitating, he just kept coming. He climbed the edge of the mattress, swinging a knee over Bruce’s legs to straddle him, curled over in a ball, jammed the top of his head into his father’s stomach, and smooshed his cheek against a broad thigh. Bruce’s eyes widened in surprise, barely having enough time to save his book from being crushed. He sat still for a moment, waiting to see if Jason would shift or move again. He didn’t.
Thinking this might be Jason’s permanent position and location of choice for the remainder of the night, Bruce stripped off his reading glasses and placed them on the bedside table along with the novel. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” The lackluster response was muffled. Still there was no movement, save the regular in and out of his breathing.
Bruce put a hand flat on Jason’s back, not knowing how his son would react to the gesture. It was what he would have done with any of the others, and he refused to second guess himself. Jason sighed, hunched shoulders relaxing a bit. Sure now that his touch was not unwelcome, Bruce began to rub his palm over a shoulder blade. He moved on to the other, Jason’s body gently swaying with the pressure applied this way and that. Using both hands, he swept down into the muscles on either side of the spine, running from his neck to his waist. Predictable, even pressured, never startling. Moving in a circuit between shoulders and erector spinae, Bruce repeated the cycle several times, allowing the quiet and gentle attention to sooth his son. When he ventured away from the existing pattern to Jason’s sides, a sharp intake of breath was accompanied by a violent flinch and muscles retightening themselves.
“Stop,” he hissed.
Bruce’s hands flew away. He expected in another second Jason would roll away and escape, deny he’d ever visited, let alone sought out Bruce’s company or comfort. He didn’t. He didn’t move at all, only forced himself to regain the ground he’d lost by taking a few deep breaths. The t-shirt he was wearing had partially ridden up over his arched back, leaving his midsection exposed. Unmarred skin was all Bruce could see. He risked lifting the hem to get a better look. A patch of black and blue discolored his lower ribs on the right side.
It wasn’t by any means the worst injury ever inflicted upon Jason. Regardless, Bruce’s stomach turned sour and anger threatened to constrict his chest. He chose to follow his son’s wise decision and take a few deep breaths. Breaths Jason could no doubt feel with his head pressed firmly up under his father’s diaphragm.
“Chill,” he mumbled. “Said I was fine.”
It was a distinctive sort of shape. A baseball bat. Or a pipe.
“Some fucker got lucky.”
Bruce let his gaze drop. As well as the edge of Jason’s shirt. He resisted the urge to follow the curvature of the ribs beneath the bruise, to make sure there was nothing broken. Because he knew there wasn’t. Jason wouldn’t have come at all had that been the case. Bruce took solace in the knowledge that Jason was here and for the most part unhurt. He abided by the directive given earlier and kept his hands resting at his sides.
He was just about to retrieve his book when Jason reached out on his left and fumbled for Bruce’s hand. Which he tugged wordlessly back to its previous location. It was an awkward interaction, requiring Jason to twist his arm up and behind. Confused, Bruce left his hand where it had been deposited.
“You told me to stop,” Bruce reminded him.
An irritated sound formed at the base of Jason’s throat, but the words that followed were almost petulant. Definitely exhausted. “Not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“Stop touching the bruise.” Asshole. It went said only in intonation.
“Ah.” There was no reason to hide the smile that crept to his face.
Bruce went back to work, using the same techniques Alfred used on him when his body turned to rock. He zeroed in on a knot in the trapezius. He massaged it with a thumb, hearing it click and feeling it grind. Jason growled, the pain a temporary hurdle. Bruce switched to using his palm and soon, the knot untangled itself, lengthening out and righting itself. He steered clear of the bruised side and worked on the opposite. Exposed skin took on a healthier shade of pink, blood flow increasing to the area. Without warning, Jason sat up abruptly on bended knees and rubbed at his bleary eyes.
“M’feet are asleep.” Then he rolled sideways, landed on his back, and stretched out his legs. Pins and needles engulfed his deadened nerve endings, sending prickly spikes up into his calves. He scooted a little closer to Bruce, braced upright against the headboard.
“Want a pillow?” Anything to encourage him to stay. He looked ready to pass out anyway.
“Nah,” he muttered, his eyes already closed. “I’m good.”
Bruce glanced down at him, taking in his facial features at rest, and committed the peaceful image to memory. Then he purposefully tore his gaze away. It was still a struggle not to treat every moment with Jason like it would be the last and fixating was second nature.
“You reading Christie?”
He should have known he would ask. They shared a love of classic literature and unlike any of the other children, Jason knew his predilections for certain Agatha Christie titles revealed aspects of his mood and/or the circumstances of the day. It was like speaking in a code only Jason could decipher. “The A.B.C. Murders,” he confirmed reluctantly.
He might as well have said, I communicated poorly and now I don’t know how to make it right.
Jason hmphed, reading him loud and clear. “Let me guess. Baby brat.”
“He asked if he could stay at the farm another week. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted. He misunderstood and thought I was implying I didn’t need him here.” Frustration reared its head. Some mistakes he made over and over again no matter how hard he tried. Parenting defied all rules and kept one humble. It often meant being the first to apologize. His children were worth it.
“Call him back.”
It was what he’d intended to do all along. But a little time would do them both some good. “Tomorrow,” he replied resolutely.
That seemed good enough for Jason, who commented no further.
“Would you like me to start over and read aloud?”
“I might snore.”
He lasted a chapter and a half.
#Bruce Wayne#Jason Todd#ficlet#my child came in and horta'd on me and all you got was this lousy fic#dc
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Typewriter Series #301 ya foolios. How are you tonight? (at Helena, Montana)
https://www.instagram.com/p/Con4iFCvPWo/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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alfred is actually just some eldritch being that was watching over humanity for years and years. he took on a human appearance to blend in, he found the wayne's by chance - staying with them to study and learn more about the way people acted, but when thomas and martha were killed he decided to stay amongst humans solely for the reason of looking after, protecting, and raising bruce. because he'd grown rather fond of people, well most people. maybe just bruce.
bruce never suspects anything. not even when alfred's been in situations where he should've died, he doesn't question it, he's just glad he's alright. none of the batkids ever suspect it either, to them alfred is just alfred and they love him all the same. they don't even think that he probably should be getting a bit old throughout the years, bruce never even wonders why he looks the same as he did twenty years ago. maybe he ponders it a little, but whatever, he can think about it later.
alfred is just happy to be with his family, even if they're a little oblivious at times.
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I’m making a blackout poem for every letter in the alphabet using the Encyclopedia as found text! Today’s poem comes from the entry for “Burns”. The poem reads:
Burns
In a normal
commonplace
wound
the face falls off
after it dries
It is particularly useful
loss and pain
may increase
scar formation
for grafting
limits the formation of
lost
loss
and so there is a danger
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I find it adorable that every member of the Batfam has their own, quiet, just-for-fun hobby
Dick- Gymnastics
Jason- Literature
Tim- Skateboarding
Damien- Painting
Cass- Dance
Bruce- Running the Gotham chapter of Adoption Addicts Anonymous
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It's the annual Wayne Enterprises Halloween Trick or Treat Trek!
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Whump21~Prompt 15 (Feed A Cold, Starve A Fever)
The bees have finally stopped stinging. The winged beasts wriggle in under his skin instead and burrow into his being, continuously squirming. Up and down his extremities, they crawl. They fill his stomach and clog his chest. The hive is growing inside him. Jason writhes, sweating through his sheets, trying to escape what he cannot purge. Gentle hands hold him down. Whispering reaches his ear, the voice familiar yet far away. The words flatten into a drone, then into a buzzing. The bees are eating him from the inside out. Jason jerks and turns his head, vomiting insects and illness.
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