Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne hadn't always wanted to be a doctor.

As a child, he had wanted to become a secret agent, like Alfred had been in England. The old butler would often tell him stories about his time as a combat medic turned Her Majesty's Secret Service agent. The thought of fighting bad guys and saving people seemed much more appealing to the eight-year-old than taking care of sick people.

Then, of course, the night in the alley happened.

When Bruce's parents had been shot, he hadn't known what to do. He had tried holding pressure onto his mother's bleeding chest, as he had once seen his father do to one of his patients, but it hadn't worked. His parents had both died, and Bruce had been helpless to save them.

So from then on, he vowed to learn how to save others, just as his father had done. Maybe then, he'd be able to stop other kids from losing their parents the way he had.

Now, almost exactly two decades later, Bruce was one of the youngest attending physicians in Wayne Memorial Hospital's history. After graduating medical school at just age twenty, he had completed his four years of emergency medicine residency at his father's former place of work before accepting a full-time position in the ER. It wasn't an easy job, but Bruce loved it all the same. He couldn't imagine anything bringing him more fulfillment and purpose than being a doctor.

That is, until he became a father.

Bruce was eight hours into his twelve-hour shift when the alpha trauma alert came in. There had been an accident at Haly's Circus involving a broken trapeze. Three victims: father, mid-thirties, found DOA; mother, mid-thirties, alive but in critical condition involving multi-system trauma; and, finally, an eight-year-old little boy with probable spinal cord injury and head trauma.

"Ambulances are four minutes out," Bev, the charge nurse for that shift, reported. "The mom is going to trauma one. Boy's going to two."

Bev had worked in WMH's ER since before Bruce was born. He remembered his father talking about her frequently, saying "if Bev says it, I do it." He had adopted the same philosophy in his own practice.

"I'll take the boy," Bruce volunteered immediately. He had always had a soft spot for children. The other doctors joked that it was because he was still a kid himself, but Bruce knew it went much deeper than that. He wanted to help children preserve their innocence as much as possible, as his own had been stripped away far too early.

The old nurse nodded. "Figured as much. Thompkins is taking point on the mom."

Good. If anyone could save the mother, it was WMH's head of trauma surgery.

"What about Dr. Elliot?" If the boy had spinal and head trauma, he would definitely need the neurosurgeon on board.

"Already on his way."

Commotion erupted near the trauma bays. Bruce immediately took off, his eyes searching for his patient.

There.

The boy was wheeled into the trauma bay by two medics. His tiny form was swallowed up by the bulky dressings and medical equipment, but Bruce could see the glittery face paint splattered across the child's pale skin.

It made his heart clench.

Behind him, he heard the familiar voice of Dr. Tommy Elliot, one of his best friends from residency. “Is this the circus kid?”

Bruce nodded grimly and led his fellow physician inside.

As soon as they made it into the room, one of the medics started rattling off report. "Richard Grayson, eight-year-old male, post fall from twenty-five foot trapeze. Wires snapped with no safety net in use. Ringleader said patient's father shielded his fall and took brunt of impact. GCS eight on scene. Patient intubated and vented at eighteen breaths per minute on 100% O2. Full spinal precautions initiated with backboard and C-collar in place. Pupils uneven with sluggish response on left side. Vital signs are 147 heart rate, BP 82/48, and O2 sat 98%. One liter NS already infused."

"All right," Bruce called out to the trauma team, "move him on my count. One. Two. Three!"

The boy was slid from the gurney to the stretcher. The waiting X-ray tech did a quick portable scan of his chest and abdomen, then stepped back so the attending could look at the images.

Bruce scanned the films. “ETT secure and in a good spot. Lungs look clear with no obvious pneumothorax. I see a pelvic ring fracture, but it looks stable.”

“No free fluid on FAST," one of his senior residents, Dr. Helena Bertinelli, called out, swiping the ultrasound probe over the boy's belly. "No signs of tamponade, either.”

“Good,” Bruce breathed. The boy’s chances of survival creeped up with every benign finding. “Keep saline running in wide open and insert a Foley catheter.”

Dr. Elliot stepped in and did a quick neurological exam, starting by flashing a light in Richard's eyes and moving his way down. "Left pupil is dilated and sluggish, but there’s no visible skull deformities. Lower extremities flaccid with no response to pain, and rectal tone is decreased but present. Get a STAT CT of his head, spine, and pelvis. Then call the OR and tell them to set up for a neurosurgery case.”

It was a whirlwind from there. With the help of his team, Bruce did his best to stabilize Richard before sending him off to CT. His condition was very serious, but the young doctor had hope the boy would survive.

He put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Keep me updated on him, please.”

His old friend grinned at him. “Sure thing, ya big softie.”

“Do you think he’ll need a craniotomy?”

“I’m hoping to avoid it,” Tommy assured, “but I’ll have to see what his CT looks like. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get away with a couple of Burr holes and an EVD. I’ll let you know before I scrub in.”

Relief bubbled up in his chest. “Thanks, Tommy."

When Bruce finally left the trauma bay, he saw Leslie Thompkins shedding a bloodied gown and gloves.

The look on the senior doctor's face told him everything he needed to know, but he asked anyway. "The mom?"

She shook her head. "Her pelvis was shattered and iliac arteries shredded. There was nothing we could do."

Dread curdled in his gut. Death was something he dealt with everyday as an ER physician. But this situation - an eight-year-old little boy losing both of his parents in such a sudden, violent manner - hit a little too close to home.

Bruce rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm going to reach out to Selina and see if he has any other family members we can call."

Selina Kyle was a social worker at the hospital. She worked mostly with peds cases, meaning she and Bruce frequently crossed paths. If Richard had any living family, she would find them. And if he didn't...

Well, Bruce would cross that bridge if he got there.

Bruce had only made it up to WMH's PICU a handful of times during his relatively short medical career. The walls were painted soothing pastel colors with a mural of a garden framing the nurse's station. Night shift had gotten settled into their routine, turning off the bright overhead lights to provide minimal stimulation to their critical patients.

Patients like Richard.

The boy had survived his initial surgery. Tommy had drilled two holes in Dick’s cranium to relieve pressure and insert a drain and probe to keep an eye on his intracranial pressure. He would need another surgery to attempt to fix the damage done to his spine (an incomplete spinal cord injury, thank goodness), but that would have to wait a day or two. At least, for now, he was stable and resting.

A quiet knock came at the door. It was Selina.

"I thought your shift ended," he said in lieu of greeting. He kept his voice low, even though Richard was heavily sedated.

The social work cocked an eyebrow at him. "I could say the same thing about you. You're a long ways away from the ER."

Bruce's face reddened, his eyes drifting back to the broken boy in the bed. "He got out of surgery right as I was getting off. I thought someone should stay with him until his family could be contacted."

Selina pulled up a chair next to him, looking grim. "I just got off the phone with Mr. Haly, the owner of the circus. According to him, there is no other family to contact. Richard - or Dick, as Haly told me he prefers to be called - only had his parents. Hell, he's not even an American citizen. His dad's side is Romanian and his mom's Romani. The Graysons had work visas through the circus. The kid barely knows any English."

Bruce's heart sank into the pit of his stomach. "So what will happen to him?"

"Gotham CPS has already been contacted. No one in the circus can take him, so he'll likely go into our system if he's not shipped back to Romania."

No, that couldn't be right. Righteous indignation bubbled up in Bruce's chest.

"How could they send him back if he has no family or home to go to?" he demanded.

Selina, unfazed by his growing anger, let out a sigh. "Because they don't have the resources to keep him here. Foster families in Gotham are slim pickings as it is. I've already spoken with Dr. Elliot. He thinks that while Dick has a good chance at a meaningful recovery, he's likely going to have deficits, both physical and neurological. You know how hard it is to get a foster family to take in a child with medical issues, Bruce. Let alone one that doesn't speak English. It's going to be nearly impossible to place him. It'll be a miracle if he doesn't end up in a facility."

There was no way Bruce could let that happen. Dick was so young, so full of life that had not yet been lived. During his bedside vigil, he'd looked up videos of the Flying Graysons on the internet. The boy flew through the air like he was born to it, always wearing a smile that lit up everything and everyone around him. The system would eat him alive and extinguish that light forever. Bruce simply couldn't allow it.

Before he lost his nerve, he opened his mouth and asked the question that would change his life forever:

"Selina, how does one go about becoming a foster parent?”

Gotham CPS, after confirming the absence of other living relatives, had been all too eager to give Bruce custody over Dick. Especially once they had learned that he had a working knowledge of Romanian from time spent abroad during his undergrad years. He wasn’t fluent (yet), but he could carry on a conversation.

Ten days post accident, Dick’s recovery was going about as well as it could be. The first few times he’d woken up, Dick had been very confused and agitated. Bruce could only imagine how scary it must have been to wake up in lot of pain surrounded by people speaking a language you didn’t know. But between himself and Diana Prince, the hospital’s interpretive services manager who spoke more languages than Bruce could count, they’d been able to calm Dick down enough to keep him out of restraints.

The boy was more alert now, though he still spent more time asleep than awake. When he was conscious, he communicated mostly with a picture board, speaking only a few words here and there. Tommy had assured Bruce that this was expected and that Dick’s speech would likely return to normal within the next few weeks, after more of the swelling in his brain healed.

Bruce was elated at the progress Dick was making, but that also meant that it was now time to break the horrible news of the Graysons’ deaths.

Breaking bad news was an omnipresent part of Bruce’s job. He knew all the “right” ways to alert family members of their loved one’s passing: don’t use euphemisms, speak in clear, short sentences, and normalize grief responses. Dick’s case, however, was different. Not only was it complex, given his injuries and foreignness, but it was also more personal. He wanted to make sure he got it right.

Which is why Bruce had assembled a team to help him. This had included Diana, who would help him during the actual conversation and provide culturally-centered suggestions, Selina, Dr. Harley Quinzel, a pediatric psychiatrist whom Bruce had known since medical school, and Clark Kent, the best Child Life Specialist WMH had (in Bruce’s opinion, at least). They had each given him valuable advice and recommendations and helped him outline what he was going to say. He was ready as he was ever going to be.

“Bună dimineaţa.” {Good morning.}

Bruce looked up from the book he was reading Dick (a Romanian translation of The Lord of the Rings) to see Diana quietly entering the room. At her suggestion, they only spoke in Romanian, both to give him more practice and to put Dick more at ease. The woman pulled up a chair next to Bruce’s and sat down.

“Dimineaţa,” Dick replied quietly, pushing his tray away. He’d actually eaten quite a bit of his breakfast, which had included cornmeal porridge topped with cheese and a cup of linden tea. Earlier that week, Alfred (God bless him) had met with Pop Haly before the circus had left and, along with collecting some of Dick’s personal belongings, asked about the boy’s food preferences. Diana had stressed the importance of providing Dick with as much familiarity as possible, so Bruce had arranged for Dick to be brought meals that he would recognize. As a result, his PO intake had increased dramatically.

With a deep, centering breath, Bruce began. “Dick, Diana și cu mine avem ceva foarte dificil de discutat cu voi.” {Dick, Diana and I have something very difficult to discuss with you.}

Immediately, the boy frowned. Dick, Bruce had learned very quickly, was very good at reading other people’s emotions. He clutched his stuffed elephant, Zitka, close to his chest and fixed his bright blue eyes onto Bruce’s face.

Not expecting a verbal response, he continued. “Îți amintești cum ți-am spus că ai fost rănit într-o căzătură? Pentru că s-a rupt trapezul?” {Do you remember how we told you you'd been hurt in a fall? Because the trapeze broke?}

Dick nodded slowly.

“Mama și tatăl tău au fost și ei răniți în aceeași căzătură. Îmi pare foarte rău, Dick, dar au murit.” {Your mother and father were also hurt in the same fall. I'm very sorry, Dick, but they died.}

It took a few moments, but Bruce could see the exact moment the boy processed his words. Dick’s face paled, and his eyes filled with tears.

“Mami și tati... morți?” {Mommy and Daddy…dead?}

Bruce throat felt like it was going to swell shut. He was suddenly thrown back into that dark alley from all those years ago.

“They’re not coming back, lad,” Alfred had held him as he sobbed. “I’m so very sorry.”

Thankfully, when his voice failed him, Diana took over. “Da. Părinții tăi te-au iubit foarte mult, Dick,” she assured gently. “Tatăl tău te-a ținut în brațe în timpul căderii și te-a protejat. Ți-a salvat viața.” {Yes. Your parents loved you very much, Dick. Your dad held you during the fall and protected you. He saved your life.}

That was true. Eyewitnesses confirmed to news outlets what the paramedics had reported in the trauma bay. If not for his father’s actions, Dick would most likely have died, or at the very least been devastatingly disabled. John Grayson had given up his life to save his only son. It was yet another way Dick’s trauma mirrored his own.

“Stay behind me, Bruce. It’s going to be okay.”

Bruce rubbed his hand over his face, forcing the old memories away. Dick was the priority here, not him. He needed to stay present.

He reached forward and put a comforting hand on the boy’s knee. “Înțeleg că nimic nu va rezolva problema, dar vreau să știi că nu vei fi singur. Niciodată. Voi avea grijă de tine, Dick. Vei avea mereu un cămin cu mine.” {I understand that nothing will make this okay, but I want you to know that you won't be alone. Ever. I'm going to take care of you, Dick. You’ll always have a home with me.}

Dick didn’t say anything. Tears flowed down his face freely as sobs began to wrack his tiny frame. It broke Bruce’s heart right down the middle.

Acting on pure instinct, he slowly stood from his chair and sat down on the bed next to Dick. The boy instantly curled up into the doctor’s side.

“Sunt aici, puștiule,” Bruce promised softly, bringing his hand up to rub Dick’s back. “Te am eu.” {I’m here, kiddo. I've got you.}

As he sat there, quietly holding the crying child, Bruce had hope that he and Dick Grayson were going to be okay.

Chapter Text

The next decade passed by in a blur.

Dick ended up being the piece in Bruce's life he didn't know was missing. As the boy recovered, the spark Bruce had caught mere glimpses of in those old internet videos had returned in full force, illuminating every aspect of his guardian's life. Though, that's not to say it had been easy. The first year of Dick's recovery had been one of the hardest of Bruce's life. But Dick had never given up, so neither had he. Through every physical therapy appointment, follow-up visit, and medication change, Bruce stayed by the boy’s side. And now, life was good.

Of course, his son still had lasting scars. While his mobility had improved beyond anyone's expectation, Dick needed forearm crutches to walk more than a few feet. He also suffered from frequent, debilitating migraines, random emotional outbursts, and lapses in short-term memory. But despite all of that, Dick had blossomed into a wonderful young man. One Bruce couldn't be prouder of. At least, most of the time.

"Oh come on, Bruce! I can't have Alfred drive me to my date. I'm eighteen!"

Bruce groaned internally, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. Had he ever been this whiny as a teenager? Surely not. He'd have to ask Alfred.

"Dick, the movie doesn't start until 6:30. You know you can't drive after dark."

It had taken the teen over a year to convince Bruce to even let him get his license. And even then, he was only given permission after working with his occupational therapist on using adaptive technology and determining limitations that would keep both himself and other Gotham drivers safe. Bruce, being the overprotective father he was, would have vastly preferred not to let Dick drive at all, but Alfred had reminded (AKA guilt-tripped) him that Dick needed to be allowed to function as much like a normal teen as possible. He couldn't be kept dependent forever.

"It's summer, B. Sunset isn't until like 9:00. That gives us plenty of time. Please, I really want to impress Barbara."

Barbara Gordon had been shot in the back during a home invasion about a year after Bruce had taken Dick in, leaving her permanently wheelchair-bound. Dick had met Barbara at a camp for kids with spinal injuries the following summer. They'd instantly become best friends, staying in touch throughout the school year and hanging out whenever they were able. Now, they had both graduated into being counselors, and their once platonic friendship had evolved into puppy love.

Bruce was happy for them - really, he was, but Dick had been stressing about the upcoming date for almost a week now. And they'd had this exact discussion at least three times already.

"You have a restricted driver's license, Dick. I don't think the police commissioner would appreciate you trying to push your limits when his daughter's involved. Barbara won’t care that Alfred’s driving you. He’s driven you to every other hangout you’ve ever had with her. It’s no different.”

Dick groaned in overdramatic exasperation. “But it is different this time! We’re not just hanging out, B. We’re adults now. What if we wanna make out? What if we decide to have se-”

"Sorry, Dick, I have to go," he interrupted before his son could finish that horrible sentence. "I'm at the clinic."

He'd helped Leslie open a free clinic in one of Gotham's poorest neighborhoods a few years back. In addition to keeping it well-funded, Bruce volunteered his time by working a couple of shifts per month. He enjoyed the work, at least for the most part. It was a nice change of pace compared to the ER.

"This isn't over, B," Dick warned. "You're the one who made me sit through a PowerPoint presentation on 'Openness in Communication Regarding Sexual Activities'."

Yeah, because Bruce had thought it would mortify his son into never wanting to partake in any kind of sexual activity ever - or at least, not until he was thirty and out of Bruce's house. Clearly, that had backfired. Figures, he'd adopt the one child on the planet immune to embarrassment. He blamed the circus. And Europe.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I get off at five. Figure things out with Alfred, or I will be the one driving you to your date. Got it?"

His son grumbled something in Romany. Bruce elected to ignore it. "Got it."

"Good. I love you. I'll call and check in on my lunch break."

"Love you too, Dad."

His heart still fluttered whenever Dick called him that, even though he knew it was an emotional manipulation tactic.

"Dr. Wayne, I need you in room seven right now.”

Bruce downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp then followed the nurse. Crystal Brown was not easily shaken. She had recently left her abusive ex-husband and was now raising her nine-year-old daughter, Stephanie, by herself; all while working both at the hospital and the free clinic. If she was this insistent, it must be serious.

He steeled himself for the worst.

A boy - probably around ten, based on his size - was curled up on the cot. His black hair was stuck to his forehead and drenched with sweat. His skin was pale with a sickly yellow tint to it and dark purple bags underneath his closed eyes. His clothes were dirty and tattered, revealing horribly bony features. The boy wasn’t just malnourished – he was downright cachectic.

The sight was so shocking Bruce almost missed the smell. A smell any ER doc worth his salt could recognize from a mile away.

Ketones.

"Where did he come from?" Bruce asked as he slipped some gloves on.

"He was dumped out back. Cameras didn't catch by who. I only found him because I went out for a smoke. Jean-Paul helped me get him in. So far, he hasn't said a word, but I was able to get some vitals on him. His heart rate’s 134, respirations 36 and labored, temp’s 102.6, BP is 90/54, and O2 is 92%.”

A tornado of anger and dread threatened to overwhelm Bruce, but he forced it back down. This boy needed him, and needed him badly. He had to keep a clear head.

"Crystal, I want you to tell Jean-Paul to call Wayne Memorial and let them know I have a transfer coming. Have him also call for an ambulance. While we wait on transport, I need you to draw blood cultures, a VBG, CMP, CBC, LFTs, and a HbA1c. Get two IV's if you can. Then start a 20ml/kg bolus of normal saline."

The nurse nodded and hurried off to gather supplies.

Bruce approached the child slowly. He'd clearly been abused, and he didn't want to spook him.

"Hello. My name is Dr. Wayne, but you can call me Bruce,” he introduced himself, keeping his voice soft and steady. "I'm here to help you. Can you hear me?"

A heart-breaking moan pushed out from the boy's lips. His eyes cracked open, albeit barely.

“Good job," Bruce praised. It was some kind of response at least. "Can you tell me your name?"

The reply was so quiet he almost missed it. “J-Jas’n T’dd..”

He smiled. “Okay, Jason. It's nice to meet you. How old are you?”

“T-twelve.” The boy shivered, even though the room was at least seventy degrees.

Bruce reached into a nearby cabinet and took out a blanket. “You seem cold. Would you like a blanket?"

Jason looked skeptical. “D-do I hafta do anythin’ for it?"

Now that he was closer, Bruce could see bruises littered the boy’s entire body, some of which were clearly handprints. Definitely abused, then. Possibly trafficked. "Not at all. I'm a doctor, and this is a free clinic. You're safe here. No one is going to do anything to harm you, I promise."

To prove his point, he carefully handed the blanket over, making sure to always keep himself in Jason's line of sight. Jason, though clearly still hesitant, accepted the blanket and covered himself with it. Bruce counted that as a win.

“There, that’s better. Is it okay if I take a look at you now, Jason?”

Jason narrowed his blue-green eyes. They were glassy with fever, and his scleras were tinged yellow. “Whaddya mean?”

Bruce sat down on a rolling stool to make himself look (hopefully) less intimidating. “I’m concerned that you may be very ill. As a doctor, it’s my job to treat illnesses and injuries. I would just take a listen to your heart and lungs with my stethoscope then press around on your stomach with my hands.”

“Do I hafta take m’ pants off?”

If Bruce had any doubts about Jason having been sexually abused, they were now dead and buried. “No, of course not. You can keep your clothes on. I just need to determine how sick you are so I can help you.”

Finally, the boy relented. Likely because he didn’t have the strength to protest further. “Okay.”

And so Bruce got to work.

“Jason, while I examine you, I’m going to ask you some questions. First off, how are you feeling right now? Does anything hurt in particular?”

“M-m’ st’mach,” the boy whimpered.

His breathing was rapid and shallow, but his lungs were clear. Kussmaul respirations, most likely. The kid’s breath smelled like rotting fruit. Heartbeat was strong but tachycardic. “Okay. Do you know if you have any chronic medical conditions, like diabetes?”

“Mm–mm.”

The kid’s skin turgor was crap. His cap refill was sluggish, too. Severe dehydration. “Are you allergic to anything that you know of?”

Jason shook his head. His eyelids kept drooping, as if he was having trouble keeping them open.

Bruce rubbed his hands together to warm them. “Okay, Jason, I’m going to press my hands on your stomach now. Let me know if anything hurts.”

The boy’s liver was palpable, which greatly concerned Bruce. There was a decent possibility that the kid had contracted hepatitis on top of everything else. They needed to get him to the hospital ASAP.

When he was finished with his exam, Bruce sat back on his stool. “Let me explain what’s going to happen now, Jason. My friend Crystal, whom you met earlier, is going to come in here and start an IV or two so we can give you fluids and medications. We also want to check your blood for infections, among other things, so we know best how to treat you. Is that okay?”

Jason tensed. “I-I don’ wan’ drugs! N-no drugs!”

The kid looked genuinely terrified. Bruce wanted nothing more than to scoop him up and hide him away from all the bad things in the world. “We won’t give you anything that makes you feel sleepy or high. Just some fluids to rehydrate you for now, and maybe some electrolytes and antibiotics later, or nausea medicine if you need it. I promise, I will explain every single medication to you before we give it. Does that sound doable?”

“Y-yeah,” he relented, sagging back against the exam table.

“Good. To start, I’d like to check your blood sugar. It’s just a tiny little finger poke. Is that alright with you?”

Instead of a verbal answer, Jason lifted a shaking hand out from underneath his blanket. Bruce grabbed the glucometer along with a lancet and alcohol swab from the counter and inserted a strip into the machine. “Okay, Jason, here comes the poke.”

His blood was very dark, and Bruce had to knead the skeletal finger a few times to get a drop big enough. Jason, for his part, didn’t complain. The glucometer accepted the sample, blinked a few times, then delivered the reading:

HI.

Bruce grimaced. The clinic’s glucometer had an upper limit of 600. Jason was definitely in DKA.

“Your blood sugar is very high, Jason,” he explained, keeping his tone even. “Which means you probably have type one diabetes and didn’t know it. Have you felt any differently the past few days? Maybe hungrier or thirstier than usual? Or have you noticed any recent weight loss or anything like that?”

Jason’s eyes slipped closed again. “M always hungry.”

Right. Clearly. Now, Bruce felt like a mule.

Thankfully, Crystal came in to save him. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“Good,” Bruce let out a breath of relief. “Jason, Crystal is going to take some blood and insert a couple of IVs like we talked about. Let us know if you need a break, okay?”

The kid only hummed in response. He was becoming more and more lethargic, which was a major red flag. He barely even flinched when Crystal stuck him. She collected a few syringes of blood before connecting the hub to the already prepared IV tubing. Once the fluid bolus was running, she divided the blood into the proper vacutainers.

“You did great, kiddo,” the nurse praised. “Now I’m going to insert one more IV for the doctors to use to give other medicines. Then we’ll be all done with the pokes.”

While Crystal started looking at Jason’s veins again, Bruce parked himself by the boy’s head. “Jason, because of how serious your illness is, we’re going to have to send you to the hospital. Is there anyone you would like me to call for you? A parent or guardian, perhaps?”

Jason cracked his eyes open. His voice came out a broken whisper. “No mon’y for hospit’l.”

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll take care of it,” Bruce promised. “Now, what about calling someone for you?”

“I don’ h’ve anyb’dy.”

That was what Bruce had feared. He’d seen and helped plenty of homeless kids in the past, and Jason ticked every box and more. In addition to that, whatever adults had been in the boy’s life clearly had not been safe ones. A familiar knot formed his stomach.

“Well, you do now,” Bruce promised, his decision made. “I’m going to make sure you’re well taken care of, Jason. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

He couldn’t stomach the thought of sending Jason to the hospital by himself. The boy was clearly scared out of his mind. Likely the only reason he hadn’t bolted was the simple fact he was too physically ill to. He’d need Bruce to look out for him and be his advocate, just like Dick had needed him ten years ago. If he could just find someone to watch the clinic for the rest of the day…

Crystal, as if reading his mind, spoke up. “Dr. Thompkins is already on her way in to relieve you.”

Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

The nurse smiled softly as she finished dressing the second IV. “You didn’t have to. I could see it on your face. Besides, he needs you more than we do.”

She was right. Bruce only hoped he was up to the task.

“Hiya, Chum, how was your date?”

Bruce had stepped out of the PICU to grab some coffee and breakfast after spending the night in the hospital with Jason. The kid was in pretty severe DKA with an A1C of almost 15%. On top of that, he was devastatingly malnourished, had dozens of bruises, and showed signs of chronic abuse and exploitation. The hepatitis panel, as Bruce had suspected, came back reactive for HCV. It would take a few days for the RNA results to confirm an active infection, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath. It was a miracle this kid had survived long enough to make it to the clinic at all.

From what Selina could find, the boy’s mother had died of a heroin overdose about eighteen months ago, and his father was an ex-con who had been killed in jail riot a couple of years before that. Jason didn’t have any other living relatives, so he’d fallen through the cracks and ended up homeless.

She also took the opportunity to explain to Bruce how hard it would be for CPS to place a kid like Jason, considering all of his medical issues and trauma. Not that it has been needed. He’d already reached out to his contacts at DCS and his legal team regarding filing for custody.

He’d told Alfred the gist of the situation, and the butler had promised to cover for him until Jason was settled enough for Bruce to step away. Now, it was time to tell his son he’d be getting a brother.

“It was a lot of fun,” Dick answered. “We ended up meeting Wally and his girlfriend, Linda, for ice cream after the movie, so Alfred only had to drive us there. It wasn’t too bad.”

Bruce smiled. It made him happy to hear his son so excited. “Did you kiss her?”

Dick scoffed. “I’m insulted you’d think I didn’t.”

“I’m happy for you, bud,” he offered. “I’ve always thought you and Barbara would be good together.”

“Thanks, B. Now, why didn’t you come home last night? Alfred said you stayed at the hospital, but he was super vague about it. You weren’t even supposed to be at the hospital yesterday.”

Bruce took a deep breath. He didn’t have any reason to think that Dick would take the news poorly, but the residual trauma from his brain injury made his mood unpredictable at times. He just didn’t want his son to think he was being replaced in any way. “Well, Chum, a boy showed up yesterday at the clinic…”

He explained everything, from Jason’s clear history of abuse to his current health status to his plans to take him in. As he spoke, he heard the quiet scratching of pen on paper. Dick was probably taking notes as he often did whenever he was being presented with a lot of information at once. It helped his brain remember everything.

“He’ll likely have to stay in the hospital for at least a week or two,” Bruce concluded, “depending on any other issues or infections that pop up. He’ll also need to be followed closely by a dietician so we can develop a refeeding plan to help him gain weight. It’s going to be a long road ahead.”

The other end of the line was silent. This wasn’t abnormal, as Dick needed extra time to process things. Bruce waited patiently until his son formulated his answer.

“When can I come meet him?”

Bruce sagged in relief, as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The reaction hadn’t been negative at all. “I can’t wait for you to meet him, Dick, but after talking to Harley, we think it’s best not overwhelm him right now. Jason’s been through a lot - he’s not going to trust us right away. Harley says we need to let him get used to me before introducing new variables.”

The pediatric psychiatrist hadn't even met the boy herself yet. She’d been consulted, but Jason had been so out of it the previous day that she’d elected to wait until he was more physically stable. She’d still taken the time to speak with Bruce and let him pick her brain, though.

Dick sighed. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense, I guess. In the meantime, maybe I can help Alfred get a room ready for him?”

Bless his son’s heart. He really was an angel. He felt silly for even having worried. “That sounds like a great idea, Chum. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I’ll keep you updated.”

Dr. Wayne was still there.

Jason stifled a moan as he opened his eyes. He felt like shit. His entire body throbbed with each beat of his heart. His stomach was twisted into knots, and he felt both too hot and too cold at the same time. The bed he was laying in was soft and clean, at least. It had been forever since he’d slept in a bed. At least that was one perk of being forcibly taken to the hospital.

The previous day’s events were fuzzy for him. He vaguely remembered being with a, um, client when his vision had gone blurry. From there, it was mainly flashes and surges of different emotions. But one constant had been Bruce Wayne.

From the moment he had come into the exam room at the clinic, the man had barely left his side. Jason didn’t know too much about the guy other than the fact that he was stupid rich and his picture was in the Gotham Gazette a lot (he’d fished many editions of the newspaper out of the trash during the winter time to stuff into his shoes).

So what did he want with Jason?

A lot of the men he serviced were rich, but not billionaire status. Surely, if Wayne was into that kind of thing, he could afford someone in better condition.

“Hey kiddo. How are you feeling?” Wayne asked softly.

Jason couldn’t take it anymore.

“Whaddya want with me?” he demanded, though his hoarse voice didn’t sound as intimidating as he’d hoped.

Wayne sighed. He leaned forward, placing his folded hands on top of his knees. “I don’t want anything from you. I only want to help you, Jason.”

He wasn’t buying it. “No adult ‘just wants to help’. Tell me what you really want.”

“I understand why you would feel that way. You’ve clearly been around some bad apples. But not every adult is bad, Jason. It may take some time, but I’d like to prove that to you.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “How would you do that?”

Despite being challenged, the man didn’t get angry. “Well, first, by answering all the questions I’m sure you have. I promise to always be honest with you, and if I can’t answer something, I’ll at least tell you why. So, what would you like to ask me first?”

It felt like a trap. There was no way an adult would actually be honest with him. Still, Jason did have a lot of questions, and this seemed like his only option for getting answers.

“What’s wrong with me, Doc?” He asked first. It seemed like a good place to start.

Dr. Wayne nodded. “I can answer that. But please, call me ‘Bruce.’ Do you remember much of yesterday?”

Jason shook his head.

“That’s okay. I kinda expected that. You were pretty lethargic. You have a condition called diabetic ketoacidosis, or DKA. It’s a complication of Type 1 diabetes. Do you know what that is?”

Jason searched his brain. “Like Stacey from The Baby-Sitters Club?”

Bruce cocked his head.

“What? You think that because I’m homeless, I can’t read?”

A smile broke out on the man’s face. “I’m more surprised by your choice in literature.”

“Yeah, well, the thrift store was selling each book for a quarter. My mom got me a few of ‘em for my birthday one year.”

His mother, despite all of her flaws, had loved him the best she could. He missed her so much. It hurt to talk about her.

To his relief, Bruce didn’t question him about his mom any further. “That sounds like a great memory. And to answer your question, yes, you are diabetic, like Stacey. It probably started to develop a few months ago, but with your prior living conditions, you didn’t notice the early signs. The good news is, diabetes is very manageable. You can live a long, full life as long as you’re adherent to your medication regimen and eat a healthy diet.”

Jason’s heart sank. That sounded expensive.

Dr. Wayne must have seen the look on his face because he got serious again. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but you have help. I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”

“Yeah, until I get better enough that the hospital kicks me out,” Jason muttered bitterly.

The man frowned. “Before we continue with the medical stuff, I’d like to make something clear. You’re not being sent back to the streets Jason. You’re coming to live with me.”

Jason’s eye widened. “Why would I live with you?”

“Because I know you’ve been burned before. You’ve been through more trauma than any twelve-year-old should. So rather than play the lottery with the foster system, I’d feel much better knowing you’d go somewhere safe where you’d be loved and well cared for. You deserve a home, Jason. I’m just fortunate enough to have the means to provide one.”

Jason couldn’t believe his ears. It sounded too good to be true. “So what? You just take me, and I live in a giant mansion alone with you? Sounds real sketchy to me.”

“Well,” Bruce continued with a smile, “if it makes you feel any better, it won’t be just the two of us. I have a butler named Alfred, though he’s more family than hired help. I also have an eighteen-year-old son named Dick, whom I adopted when he was eight.”

“His name is Dick?” Jason asked incredulously.

The man laughed. It was a nice sound, not sneering or condescending like he’d expected. “His full name is Richard. He’s from Europe, originally. The way he tells it, his parents watched a lot of reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show to help them learn English. When they decided to name him Richard, that was the diminutive they chose. His parents died shortly before I took him in, so he doesn’t want to go by anything else in order to preserve their memory.”

Great. Now Jason felt like an asshole.

“Oh, that’s really shitty. How’d they die?”

To his slight surprise, Bruce actually answered. “They were trapeze artists in a traveling circus. Their lines snapped, and they fell. Dick was injured in the same accident. That’s actually how we met. I was working the day it happened and took care of him. When I realized he didn’t have anyone else to take him in, I adopted him. Honestly, it was the best decision I’ve ever made. My life is so much better with him in it.”

Jason’s dad had never spoken about him with such fondness. It made his chest clench. “Is he okay now?”

“He still has a few medical issues stemming from the fall. His spinal cord was injured, so he has to use forearm crutches to get around most of the time. He also has some neurological issues he has to deal with, but overall, he’s doing great. He’ll be starting college this fall.”

“I miss school,” Jason muttered before he could stop himself. He would have been in seventh grade now if he hadn’t had to stopped going.

Bruce’s face softened. “After we get your health under control, my goal is to get you back into school. In the meantime, we can try to catch you up via homeschooling, once you feel up to it.”

“Really? I can do that?”

“Of course. But for now, we’ll focus on getting you back to feeling better.”

Jason let out a breath. He still didn’t quite believe it, but it was a nice fantasy to hold on to for the moment. “Okay.”

“Okay. Now, back to the medical side of things. Along with diabetes, your labs indicated that you’re very malnourished. When your doctors allow you to start eating, you’ll have to start with really small portions and work your way up so you don’t get sick. A professional called a dietician will help you develop a meal plan. Your labs also showed that you may have an infection in your liver called hepatitis.”

Jason gulped. He’d heard that word before. “I-I don’t do drugs. Never have, I swear!”

Bruce raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I believe you, Jason. Hepatitis can occur in a lot of different ways.”

His heart was racing. “Like what?”

“Well, anything that puts your blood in contact with the blood of someone who’s infected. That can be through contaminated needles, yes, but it can also be through blood transfusions, sharing things like razors, and even unprotected sexual activity.”

Jason froze, his blood turning to ice as shame washed over him. Tears filled his eyes as he asked, “am I gonna die?”

That’s what he deserved, anyway. It was his own fault for becoming a slut. He never wanted to, of course, but he was just so hungry…

“Oh, honey, no,” Bruce assured gently. “Hepatitis is very treatable nowadays. In a lot of cases, the type we suspect you have is even curable. It probably won’t impact your lifelong health at all since your liver ultrasounds looked relatively okay.”

“B-but I’m dirty,” he lamented, swiping at his damp face.

“No, you’re not. Regardless of how you contacted the disease, it wasn’t your fault. You are a child, Jason. It’s never the child’s fault when abuse occurs.”

Was it really abuse, though, if he got paid?

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore,” Jason decided. If Bruce knew the extent of his guilt, then he would definitely withdraw his offer to take him in. After all, who would want to adopt a whore?

Thankfully, Bruce didn’t try to push him for more information. “Then we won’t. Like I said, even if you have active hepatitis, there’s a good chance it can be completely cured with oral medications. But that won’t start until you’re a little more stable. For now, you’re getting lots of fluids and insulin to help bring your blood sugar down and correct the acidosis. Your diabetes, both in the hospital and out, will be mainly managed by a doctor who specializes in that field, called a pediatric endocrinologist. The endocrinologist on right now is named Dr. Barry Allen. I think you’ll really like him. He’s diabetic, just like you, and his nephew, Wally, is Dick’s best friend.”

Jason cocked his head. “When will I meet him?”

“You technically already did, though you probably don’t remember it,” Bruce explained. “He came by yesterday when you were admitted to the PICU. He’ll be around sometime today to talk to you more about your condition. Your last round of labs looked promising, so I’m hoping Dr. Allen will transition you off of the insulin drip around lunchtime today. Then, you’ll be able to start eating.”

The promise of food made Jason’s stomach come alive with anticipation. It had been a few days since his last decent meal.

When he didn’t answer immediately, the doctor gave him a gentle smile. “I know this has been a lot to process, but you’re doing great. Feel free to ask me any other questions as you think of them. My butler, Alfred, is going to be bringing some supplies by later as well. Things like new clothes, toiletries, and other personal items. If there’s anything else you’d like, such as certain books or games, you can write them down and I’ll send him the list.”

Tears threatened to spill out of Jason’s eyes again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had new clothes. Let alone books.

There was a blank notebook and pen on his bedside table. Jason carefully picked up the pen and wrote down his first request:

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.

Chapter Text

Bruce microwaved his coffee for the seventh time.

He’d been going nonstop since the beginning of his shift. Oswald Cobblepot had come in again – the third time that week – for COPD exacerbation. And, for the third time that week, Bruce had explained that Oswald would continue to have COPD exacerbations (and probably die) if he didn’t stop smoking. The nightclub owner, as usual, had brushed him off and told Bruce to just “stop preaching and fix him.”

Frequent flyers like Cobblepot, ones who repeatedly came to the ER due to noncompliance, were the bane of Bruce’s existence. It felt so futile. But unlike other doctors, he refused to give up. He’d continue to try to save everyone he met, regardless of whether or not they wanted him to.

It wasn’t exhausting, really.

At least he finally had a moment to drink his coffee. Bruce settled into the break room chair with an exaggerated sigh, bringing the steaming cup up to his lips and –

“Hey, Bruce, I’ve got a peds case for you in bed eight.”

Dammit.

Bruce sighed. “Is there a resident who can see them first? Or Kate?”

“Dr. Kane is in the trauma bay with an MVC,” Bev informed him, crossing her arms, “and trust me, you’ll want to take point on this one.”

Okay, now his interest was piqued. Bruce took a large sip of his coffee, ignoring the second-degree burns it gave his mouth, then mournfully put it back down on the table. Maybe the eighth time would be more successful.

“Tell me more.”

The old charge nurse (who was finally retiring next month after an impressive forty-three years in the ER) hummed. “That’s what I thought. Patient’s an eleven-year-old boy just brought in by EMS. He was found barely conscious showing signs of severe respiratory distress. Per EMS initial O2 sat in the field was 77%. Now he’s maxed out on a non-rebreather and hovering around 89-91%. He’s tachy and febrile, but his blood pressure’s stable.”

Bruce nodded, already formulating a plan in his mind. “Do you know his name?”

“Timothy Drake. Parents apparently left for Thailand yesterday afternoon.”

He frowned. “Timothy Drake? That’s my neighbor.”

Granted, in Bristol, “neighbor” was kind of a generous term. He’d only met the Drake kid once or twice, at least that he could remember. His parents, from what he could tell, spent the vast majority of their time globe-trotting.

“Well, I’m gonna tell ya right now, Bruce. Something stinks about this kid. He’s way too skinny to be eleven-years-old. On top of that, I’ve seen my fair share of pediatric pneumonia cases, and I know there’s more to this than that – something chronic that’s been left untreated, if I had to bet. And I don’t think anyone was watching him. Kid called 911 himself.”

Well, that was certainly alarming, but one thing at a time. “What’s been done so far?”

“We got an IV on him and sent off blood cultures and labs. We also sent off a sputum culture because he’s got a real’ gross, productive cough. He’s got a 20ml/kg bolus running, and respiratory’s been paged to give him a DuoNeb.”

“Chest X-ray?” Bruce checked.

“Portable’s been called. Should be at bedside by now. Crystal’s in there with him.”

They arrived at their destination. Bev placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything. And try not to adopt this one, okay?”

Bruce rolled his eyes. He’d developed a bit of a reputation around the hospital after adopting Jason. “Har har.”

After sanitizing his hands and donning a pair of gloves and a mask, Bruce entered the room. True to Bev’s word, the kid looked rough. Timothy’s breathing was quick and shallow, with his oxygen saturation constantly fluctuating in the high-eighties to low-nineties despite the supplemental oxygen. His shirt had been removed, allowing Bruce to see retractions in between the boy’s too-visible ribs.

God, the kid was tiny.

“Hello, Timothy, I’m not sure if you recognize me, but my name is Dr. Wayne,” he introduced himself. “I heard you’re not feeling too great.”

“N-no, sir,” the boy squeaked from underneath the mask. He’d just finished getting his X-ray taken.

“Well, I’m going to do my best to help fix that. Ms. Crystal, would you please page respiratory and tell them to set Mr. Drake up on a Heated High-Flow Nasal Cannula, starting on one liter per kilogram and 60% FiO2?”

The nurse nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back, Tim.”

“I have his scans ready,” the X-ray tech reported, tapping a few buttons on his machine. “Would you like to look at them now?”

Bruce nodded. “Yes, please.”

Yikes.

Bev was right. Along with opacities in the bilateral lower lobes that looked like pneumonia, the boy’s bronchial walls were way too thick with signs of hyperinflation and mucus plugging. This kid was sick, and had been for a very long time.

“So, Tim, how long have you been feeling bad?” He asked.

“F-few days.”

“Have you ever been sick like this before? Or do you take any medications at home?”

Tim shook his head.

“Okay. I heard your parents are out of town. Do you have anyone who comes and stays with you while they’re gone that we could call?”

The boy was so out of breath that it took him a while to respond. “N-no. Stay at school.”

Boarding school student, then. He must have been home for fall break. He made a note to have someone call the school to see if they knew anything else about the boy’s medical history. “Tim, I’m going to put my stethoscope on your chest so I can listen to your lungs. Try to take some deep breaths for me, okay?

The kid’s lungs were full of crackles and rhonchi. It was a wonder he was able to breathe at all with the amount of crap in his chest. In addition to that, Tim was sweaty. Like, to the point where Bruce’s stethoscope was sticky after being put on his chest. Following a hunch, Bruce removed his gloves and, after sanitizing his hands again, felt the skin around the boy’s neck as if checking for swollen lymph nodes.

It was gritty, as if his perspiration contained more salt than usual.

“Tim, may I take a look at your hands, please?” He asked gently. The boy obeyed immediately, lifting up his hands for the doctor’s inspection. Sure enough, Bruce could see some mild clubbing around the fingertips.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that this was a bad exacerbation of cystic fibrosis. But they didn’t have any record of Tim having been diagnosed with such, nor was he on any medications that they could tell. He was eleven-years-old, for crying out loud! Could it really have gone unnoticed for that long? He needed to consult with a pulmonologist.

Someone knocked on the door right as he was finishing his physical exam.

Thank God.

Clark Kent strode into the room with all the carefree sunshine he always did. “Ms. Crystal said there was someone in here who could use a friend. Are you Tim?”

The boy nodded.

“My name is Clark. I’m a child life specialist, which means I support kids while they’re in the hospital to hopefully make things less scary. Would it be okay if I sat with you for a while? I brought some cool stuff with me you may like.”

Despite how sick he was, Tim smiled. “Y-yes please.”

Bruce caught his friend’s eye and mouthed a thanks before turning back to his patient. “I’m going to go make a quick phone call, Tim, and then I’ll be back.”

Trusting that the boy would be in good hands, Bruce stepped outside of the room.

Crystal was leaning against the nurse’s station with her Computer on Wheels in front of her. “Kid’s a total train wreck,” she sighed. “Respiratory’s on their way to initiate the high flow and give him a nebulizer.”

“Do you know who’s on for pulm, by chance?” He asked.

“Dr. Holt.”

Bruce was relieved. He really enjoyed working with Michael Holt. The man was wicked smart.

“I’m going to call him. If Tim starts to get any worse, come and get me. Also, see if Selina’s here, please.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Bruce decided to make the call in the break room. If he ended up being right about Tim, then he was definitely going to need more caffeine in his system.

“This is Dr. Holt.”

“Hey, Micheal, it’s Bruce Wayne down in the ER,” he greeted, picking up his abandoned coffee cup and taking a sip. It was still slightly warm, at least.

“Hey, Bruce! What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve got a consult. An eleven-year-old boy.”

He went on to describe Tim’s case, from his presentation to his lack of available history.

“Yeah, I definitely see what you mean,” the pulmonologist agreed. “I’ve got the x-ray pulled up on my computer. This kid’s lungs look like crap. I’ll put in an order for a sweat chloride test and genetic panel. You’ll wanna get GI on board, too, to look for pancreatic insufficiency.”

Bruce took another pensive sip of his coffee. “So you really think it’s CF? Even if it’s been undiagnosed for this long?”

“It definitely smells that way to me. There’s nothing else that fits the clinical picture like that. As for it going undetected, some people live with mild CF for years without knowing, though this kid’s definitely not mild.  Maybe his symptoms had a more gradual onset. And if you suspect neglect, that would make it even more feasible. If his parents are never around, and he hasn’t been to a doctor, then there would be no way for him to have known. His boarding school probably thought he just had allergies or frequent colds.”

Bruce sighed. He’d been afraid of that. “All right, well, thanks, Michael. I’m going to admit him to the pediatric step down unit. I believe it’ll be under Dr. Jordan.”

Holt hummed in approval. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll review his labs as they come in and go see him after he’s settled into a room.”

By the time Bruce made it back to Tim’s room, he was looking much more comfortable. The high flow nasal cannula was definitely giving him better support.

“I just finished the DuoNeb,” the respiratory therapist reported. “He’s got a lot of junk, though. Might wanna use the vest on him.”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Bruce agreed. He turned back to the bed where Clark was helping Tim build a Lego TIE Fighter. “Are you feeling any better, Tim?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you. It’s easier to breathe now.”

Bruce smiled. “That’s good to hear. Are you a big Star Wars fan?”

“Yes, sir.”

The kid was so formal. Bruce noticed immediately how he struggled to sit up straight when approached, like he was afraid of being chastised for slouching. It didn’t sit right with him.

“I was just telling Tim that I have a son right around his age,” Clark offered. “He likes Star Wars, too, though his favorites are the prequels, which makes me question his judgement.”

“The prequels are good!” Tim defended weakly, letting his guard back down. How Clark did it, Bruce couldn’t understand. He was known for being good with kids, sure, but this guy was like magic.

His best friend made a big show of rubbing his nonexistent beard. “Really? Maybe I need to rewatch them, then. Give ‘em another chance.”

“You definitely should.”

Now that the boy was calmer and able to talk without losing his breath, Bruce needed to see what he could find out. He sat down on the rolling stool and scooted up to the stretcher. “So, Tim, do you feel up to answering a few questions for me?”

Tim rolled a Lego brick between his fingers. “Can Clark stay?”

Bruce smiled. “Absolutely. The X-ray we took of your lungs show that they’re very sick and have been for a while. Are you sure you don’t take any medications at home? Like breathing treatments or enzymes with meals?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. When’s the last time you went to the doctor for a check-up?”

The boy shrugged. “I dunno. My parents say that well children don’t need to go to the doctor.”

Bruce had to forcibly keep his eye from twitching. “What about when you’re sick? You’ve been coughing a lot, haven’t you?”

That made Tim squirm a bit. “I live at school most of the time.”

“You were home for fall break this past week, though, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir. I told my mother yesterday I wasn’t feeling well, but she said it was probably just a cold. She had our maid make me some chicken soup and told me to go to bed early.”

“And then they left for Thailand?”

Tim nodded.

Even though anger was bubbling up in his chest, Bruce kept his face quietly neutral. “So what happened this morning that led you to call 911?”

“I was supposed to catch the shuttle back to school today,” Tim explained, his brows furrowed in concentration, “but when I woke up this morning, I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest felt like it was being crushed. I thought I was dying.”

The last sentence was spoken so quietly that Bruce almost missed it. His heart clenched.

Tim sniffled and quickly wiped away a few tears. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be crying.”

“It’s more than okay to cry, Tim,” Clark assured, putting a comforting hand on the boy’s back. “That must have been very scary for you, especially without an adult there to help.”

The boy’s lip trembled. “It really was.”

“You did the right thing, though, by calling for help,” Bruce encouraged. “You’ve been very brave, Tim.”

“A-am I going to be okay?”

The question was a loaded one. Cystic fibrosis wasn’t the death sentence it used to be, with modern treatments extending the life expectancy of those affected by multiple decades – that is, if it was well managed. But Tim’s was not well-managed, and if that didn’t change, the boy was going to be forced into an early grave.

“We’re going to do everything we can,” Bruce explained, choosing his words carefully. “Your breathing is much better now, and we’re going to put a vibrating vest on you to help loosen some of the mucus in your chest and make it easier for you to cough it up. We’re also going to give you some antibiotics to kill the infection in your lungs.”

Tim processed the information and nodded. “Is someone going to call my parents?”

Crystal had told them she’d already called. Four times. No answer.

“We’re trying to get a hold of them,” Bruce assured. “In the meantime, we’re going to admit you to a room upstairs where you can be closely monitored while we treat you.”

Despite the boy’s attempt to hide it, Bruce could tell he was disappointed. “Okay.”

“I’ll make sure you get all the good stuff set up in your room,” Clark promised. He leaned in close to Tim, as if telling him a secret. “You know, someone donated a Lego Millennium Falcon a while ago, and I’ve been stowing it away for someone extra special. Would you be interested?”

Tim brightened, his eyes going wide. “Really?”

The man grinned. “Of course. In fact, it just so happens that my favorite intern is coming in at 3:00. He likes to build Legos, too, if you’re up for some company. You might even know him. He’s Dr. Wayne’s son.”

Dick worked at the hospital in the pediatric wing a couple times a week. Halfway through his psychology major, his eldest was torn between becoming a Child Life Specialist, like his Uncle Clark, or a forensic interviewer at one of the local Child Advocacy Centers. He was hoping some hospital experience would help him choose. Bruce knew his son would be be perfect in either role.

Tim looked up at him. The boy looked a little starstruck. “Dick, right?”

Bruce smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Have you met either of my boys before? I know we live close by.”

“I met them at a party once. Just for a second. And, uh, I’ve seen a lot of Dick’s YouTube videos.”

Ah, yes. That made sense. Even though he’d been disabled after the trapeze accident, Dick had refused to give up acrobatics. So, as he’d healed, he’d adapted his routines to be more upper-body focused. That way, he wouldn’t have to rely on his weaker lower extremities. After posting some of the videos, his son had accumulated quite the following on social media.

“I’ve seen them, too. He’s pretty cool, isn't he?” Clark agreed. “I’ll bet he’s going to love you.”

The respiratory therapist came in with the CPT vest soon after that, so Bruce excused himself from Tim’s room and promised to check in later. Honestly, he’d already spent too much time with the boy as it was, but he just couldn’t help himself.

“Dr. Wayne, code STEMI incoming, two minutes out!”

He let out a sigh and headed towards the ambulance bay, forcing himself to push Timothy Drake to the back of his mind.

“So then he entered the kitchen like a total zombie –”

“My blood sugar was low, you asshole!”

“Language, Jason.”

“– and slipped on an actual banana peel! Just like a cartoon!”

Tim grinned. Jason and Dick were hilarious. When he’d first met Dick yesterday (the Dick Grayson, from the AdaptiveAcrobat YouTube channel!), he’d been so star struck that he’d barely been able to speak. Thankfully, the older boy hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d even come back today – on his day off, no less – and brought his brother with him! He was so glad that Dr. Wayne was letting them visit. It made being at the hospital feel a little less lonely.

Not that he’d been alone too much. Between the doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and various other hospital personnel constantly coming and going, his door never stayed closed for long.

As for Dr. Wayne…

He’d barely left Tim’s side. Tim guessed a perk of owning the hospital was that they couldn’t fire him for taking off work. Why he then chose to spend that extra time with Tim, though, was anyone’s guess. That being said, he couldn’t say he disliked it. The doctor was super nice to him.

Jason let out a loud huff of indignation. “Oh, but if I laugh when you fall, I’m ‘harassing a disabled person.’ As if that’s fair!”

“I’m on crutches, you insensitive ableist.”

“Which, according to your YouTube channel, are ‘a tool, not a limitation.’ You can’t have it both ways!”

“Except I only fell because you poured baby oil on the floor!”

“Boys.” Dr. Wayne was pinching the bridge of his nose, as if he had a headache. “Please, give it a rest. This is supposed to be a healing environment.”

“Your face is supposed to be a healing environment.”

Tim lost it at Jason’s comeback. He started cracking up which, of course, then triggered a massive coughing fit.

“Whoa, hey,” Bruce soothed, jumping up and racing to his bedside. He helped Tim lean over and started rubbing on the boy’s back. “That’s it, kiddo. Let it out. You’ve got this.”

“Great, Jason, you broke him.”

“How are the kid’s shitty lungs my fault?”

“Jason!”

“What? He’s got shitty lungs, I’ve got a shitty pancreas, and Dickie’s got a shitty central nervous system. There’s no shame in it.”

Tim finally got his breathing back under control. “I’m… I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Bruce grabbed a stethoscope off the counter and placed it on his chest.

“Uh oh. Dad’s gone full ‘Doctor Mode’,” Dick stage whispered in his brother’s ear.

Jason nodded grimly. “Don’t worry, Timmy. You’ll get used to it.”

Bruce made a point of ignoring his children. “Your oxygenation is holding steady, but you’re still breathing a little too fast. I’ll ask your nurse to page the respiratory therapist for a nebulizer. You could probably benefit from a vest session, too.”

Tim wrinkled his nose. The vest didn’t hurt, per say, but it wasn’t something he enjoyed. It was annoying, like trying to relax while lying on top of a dryer.

Dr. Wayne had told him he had a condition called cystic fibrosis. Apparently, it was the reason he constantly felt sick with a cough that never fully went away. It also explained why he had always struggled to gain weight. The treatments and medications he would need for the rest of his life were overwhelming, but a part of Tim was still relieved. He’d always just assumed he was weak, and that he could never get better. Dr. Wayne had assured him that, in time, his condition would improve enough that Tim could lead a mostly normal life.

“Has anyone heard from my parents?”

That made Dr. Wayne frown. Everyone frowned whenever he asked about his parents.

“I’m afraid they still haven’t called,” the doctor told him gently.

Tim had figured as much. His parents were hard to contact whenever they were overseas. Sometimes, the only communication Tim would receive from them was a postcard or two.

“That’s okay,” he assured. “I’m sure they’re very busy.”

Dick furrowed his brows. “Tim, you’ve just been diagnosed with a serious, lifelong illness. They should be here. You don’t have to pretend it’s okay that they’re not.”

“But them being here won’t change anything,” Tim defended. “I can handle this by myself. I know how to take medicine.”

Dr. Wayne, who was still hovering by his bed, put a hand on his shoulder. “Tim, cystic fibrosis isn’t something you can ‘handle by yourself’. It goes beyond taking just medicine. You need an adult to help you.”

His face fell. If his parents couldn’t be contacted, would he have to stay in the hospital until they came home? He didn’t even know when that would be!

Dr. Wayne seemed to sense his stress. “But we don’t have to worry about that right now. In the meantime, I just want you to focus on healing.”

“We can watch a movie while you do your vest, if you want,” Dick offered. “I brought How to Train Your Dragon.”

Tim was still worried, but he didn’t want to annoy the Waynes by pushing the issue. He forced himself to smile. “Sounds good to me.”

“Okay, I think everyone’s here.”

With the Drakes still MIA, CPS had been called. They had granted the hospital Emergency Protective Custody over Tim so that the doctors could continue treating him. Now, almost forty-eight hours later, that order was expiring. It was time to decide what to do next; thus, a care conference had been called.

The small meeting room was full. Bruce was present, as he’d volunteered to assume responsibility over Tim’s medical decisions until his parents could be reached. Also invited were Selina, Dr. Jordan, Dr. Holt, Clark, and Dr. John Jones, the pediatric gastroenterologist who’d picked up Tim’s case. Lois Lane-Kent, Tim’s DCS caseworker who’d also been assigned to both of his sons’ cases, sat next to her husband.

Selina took point in getting them started. “The goal for this meeting is to understand Tim’s medical condition and what needs he may have going forward. From my understanding, the hospital’s EPC is set to expire at 10:00 tomorrow morning.”

She looked to Lois, who nodded. “I’ve still been unable to reach either of Tim’s parents. That means I have to start looking at other options before the EPC expires. How complex, exactly, is his medical care going to be?”

“Well,” Dr. Holt volunteered, “cystic fibrosis is a lifelong condition. He’s going to need daily breathing treatments, airway clearance therapies, and frequent follow-ups in clinic. His cystic fibrosis has gone unchecked for a dangerously long period of time, so it’s going to take a lot of work to get him where he needs to be.”

“There’s the GI component as well,” Dr. Jones added. “Tim will be required to take pancreatic enzymes with every single meal and snack. He’ll also need to adhere to a high-protein, high-calorie diet. His BMI is only 15 right now. He has a lot of catching up to do.”

Lois scribbled down their answers in her notebook. “Right. Anything else?”

Clark sighed. “He’s going to need psychological support, too. The kid is used to downplaying his issues as not to be perceived as a burden by the adults around him. He’s going to need to unlearn that way of thinking, or else there’s every chance he’ll try to hide medical issues whenever they arise. Consistency of care is going to be huge.”

“We might be able to get some home nursing care, depending on insurance approval,” Selina offered, “but his caregivers will still need to be willing to go through education.”

It was a mess, but Bruce had dealt with plenty of messes in the past. Two of which were in Tim’s room right now. Dick had driven his brother to his endocrinology appointment earlier that morning, so they’d both been in the building when the meeting had been called. His boys had been more than willing to come sit with Tim so that he wouldn’t be alone. They’d all grown attached to the kid, for better or worse.

Which is why what came out of his mouth next surprised absolutely no one.

“I’d like to express my interest in fostering Tim, should it come to that,” he began. “As all of you know, I’m well-versed in caring for medically complex children, and I have the resources to provide Tim with the care he'll need.”

Selina laughed, looking to the rest of the table. “Told you he’d do it. Hal, you owe me ten bucks.”

The hospitalist groaned, reaching for his wallet. “You’ve gotta be less predictable, Wayne.”

“You took bets?”

“What? Not everyone can be a billionaire.”

Lois cleared her throat, bringing them all back into the conversation. “Well, I guess that answers that question. Bruce, I’ll send your request over to the judge for approval then get the necessary paperwork to your legal team.”

He nodded. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

“At least I know you have good lawyers. When Jack and Janet get back, it’s probably going to get ugly. I just hope we can keep Tim out of the crossfire as much as possible.”

“I’ll do everything I can to help him,” Bruce vowed. And he would, just as he had for Dick and Jason.

The caseworker smiled. “I know you will. I’m going to go explain to Tim what’s happening. You and Clark are welcome to accompany me.”

With that, the meeting was adjourned, and Bruce’s family grew one person bigger.

Chapter Text

Dick loved his job. 

He’d only been an official forensic interviewer for a few months, but he already felt like he was making a difference in kid’s lives. Kids who couldn’t advocate for themselves, just like he and his brothers had been before Bruce had found them.

That being said, while it certainly a rewarding job, it definitely wasn’t without its challenges. 

Challenges like the girl in front of him. 

She’d been dropped off by Officer Roy Harper, one of Dick’s friends on the force. Apparently, she’d been found during a robbery in progress. A guy named David Cain, who had a rap sheet like a CVS receipt, had been holding up a convenience store with the teen acting as his accomplice. According to the CCTV footage, the girl had pressed the silent alarm while Cain had been distracted. The man had been arrested on the scene. 

As it turned out, the girl was a ghost. No hospital records, police reports, or anything of the sort. They didn’t even know her name. Cain refused to tell them anything about his companion’s identity, and the girl herself hadn’t said a word at all.

Considering the complexity of the case, Dick was a little surprised he’d been sent in first. He was still pretty green, after all. But he had been, and he was determined to help this girl. 

“My name is Dick,” he began, making sure to keep his body language open and nonthreatening. “Can you tell me your name?”

The girl shook her head. 

She looked to be in her early-mid teens and of Asian descent (Chinese, if he had to guess). She didn’t look like a typical street kid. Her clothes, though slightly too small, were in good condition, and her hygiene was well maintained. She didn’t appear underfed, either. 

However, she was covered in scars. 

They littered almost every visible inch of her skin. Cuts, burn marks, fading bruises – the only part of her that had been spared, as far as he could tell, was her face. She showed other signs of long-term abuse as well. She avoided any eye contact with Dick, but he could tell that she was watching everything he did intently. He had a feeling she was very good at reading people. 

Dick smiled gently. “That’s okay. I know talking can feel overwhelming at times. Maybe you could write it down for me?” 

He offered her a pen and paper. The girl looked at it and frowned before shaking her head again. 

“All right. Let’s try some simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, then. But first, can you understand everything I’m saying?”

She nodded, a spark finally igniting in her eyes. That was good, at least. Language barrier wasn’t an issue, then, like it had been for Dick. 

“That’s good!” He encouraged. “Now, that man you were with, David Cain. Are you related to him?”

Nod. 

“Is he your father?” 

Nod.

“Do you have any other family, like a mother or siblings?”

Shake. 

“Okay. So your last name is Cain?”

Nod.

“Are you afraid to tell us your first name because of him?”

That made her shake her head, her nose wrinkling as if disgusted. 

Hmmm. The girl certainly seemed to want to cooperate. She answered every single question with no hesitation. So why not tell him her name?

Unless…

“Ms. Cain, are you unable to speak or write?”

Now she looked relieved when she nodded. 

Dick smiled encouragingly. “Okay. We can work with that. Can you read? Or point to letters on a board?”

Shake. 

His mind was racing for possible solutions. Her issues seemed to be with language and expression, not understanding. Luckily, he had some experience with that. After his head injury, it had been weeks before he could talk normally. Heck, he still had trouble getting words to cooperate sometimes. He understood how frustrating it can be to know what you want to say and be unable to say it. He could get her a picture board for basic needs, but how to figure out her name?

A lightbulb went off. 

“How about this? I’ll say a sound, and you nod when it sounds like your name.”

She gave him a thumbs up. 

Dick started going to through the alphabet, carefully pronouncing each letter’s sound. When he got to “C”, she nodded fervently. 

Progress! 

“Okay, so it starts with a ‘C’,” he said, writing it down and showing her. Technically, it could have also been a ‘K’, but he wasn’t concerned with spelling at the moment. Only sounds. 

The next letter was found immediately. “A.” 

The last sound was harder. Dick skipped any letters that would make similar sounds. Still, the first half of the alphabet yielded no results. 

“Cap…Car…Cas…”

She started banging on the table with excitement. 

Dick grinned. “Cass? Is that it? That’s your name?”

For the first time, the girl – Cass – returned his smile. It filled Dick with hope. 

“Well, Cass, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of, I promise. You’re safe now.”

After analyzing his features for any hint of deceit, Cass nodded again, apparently satisfied. She believed him. 

Now, he could really get to work. 

Bruce was off today. 

As in completely off – no hospital, no clinic, and no doctors’ appointments for any of his children. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone a full day without stepping into some kind of medical facility.

He let out a happy sigh as he sipped his coffee in the breakfast nook. His boys were otherwise occupied, so he could just sit there and enjoy the silence. 

His phone started to ring. 

The twinge of annoyance he felt when his serenity was interrupted dissipated upon reading the caller ID. 

“Hey, Chum, how’s it going?”

Dick had been living on his own with Barbara for almost six months now. After getting his dream job at the Child Advocacy Center, the young man had wanted to move closer to downtown Gotham in order to save him from a long commute. Bruce missed having his oldest in the Manor with the rest of them, but he was too proud of his son’s accomplishments to hold any resentment. Besides, Dick called him at least once a day. 

“Hey, Dad,” his eldest greeted. “I’m good; just taking a coffee break at work. How are things at home?”

Bruce smiled. “Good. Conner spent the night, so he and Tim are playing video games upstairs. Jason is outside with Alfred working in the garden. How is work going?”

There was a slight pause. Uh oh. “Well, now that you mention it, I just got pulled into a very interesting case. I can’t tell you much, of course, but she’s a teenage girl coming from a very bad situation. DCS has been called, and I’m told Lois is being given the case.”

Bruce hummed. “Is that so?”

“She’s a super sweet girl. You’d love her. She’s just gonna need a lot of supportive going forward. Which, by the way, have I ever told you I’ve always wanted a sister?” 

He sighed. With Dick working with vulnerable children all the time, he’d been afraid this would happen eventually. “Dick, Dragule, you know I can’t adopt every child that comes through the door. I’m not even an active foster parent anymore. My certification lapsed last year.”

He’d already adopted three medically complex children. And while his boys were the best thing to ever happen to him, he hadn’t planned on taking in any more. 

“You and I both know Lois would grant you a provisional license in a heartbeat. This girl deserves a chance, Papin. A chance only someone like you can give her.”

“Dick…”

“You don’t have to decide yet. Just please answer the phone when Lois calls. That’s all I ask.”

He could feel his resolve crumbling. How was it that he could face down the ugliest, bloodiest trauma cases in the ER without blinking but couldn’t say ‘no’ to his kids? 

“I’ll speak with her, but I can’t make any promises beyond that.”

Just to obliterate any lasting resistance, his son responded, “Great! Ești cel mai bun, Papin!” {you’re the best, Dad!}

Yep. Bruce was definitely going to regret this. 

Cass had never truly known love. 

She knew it existed. She’d seen it: couples holding hands while walking down the street together, mothers soothing crying babies with sweet voices, young men holding doors open for little old ladies and their walkers. It was all around her, and yet she’d never experienced it for herself. 

She didn’t remember her mother, but her father certainly didn’t love her. Maybe he loved what she could do for him. She was quiet (though not by choice) and sneaky, which was good for helping him steal things. Cass didn’t like to steal things, but if she resisted at all, her father would beat her. She liked that even less. 

But her dad had been getting worse. The amount of money she was able to pickpocket off the streets hadn’t been enough anymore. He’d gotten greedy. 

So when he’d pulled a gun on the poor convenience store clerk, a scared boy not much older than she was, Cass had decided enough was enough. She couldn’t read (another way her father had forced dependence), but she had known from watching the clerk’s eyes and body language that the red button underneath the counter was important. She’d pressed it without hesitation, ready to accept whatever consequences came next if it mean getting away from her father. 

The last thing she’d expected to happen, however, was this. 

Dick, the man with the slight accent and kind eyes, had told her that he and her DCS worker (a woman named Lois) were going to take her to her new foster placement. Cass didn’t know what to expect. The only things she knew about the foster care system came from television. It seemed to be very hit or miss, with some kids getting perfect, loving parents and others ending up in worse situations than the ones they’d escaped. Though, she didn’t think anyone could be worse than her father. 

“You’re gonna love Bruce,” Dick promised. He was riding in the passenger seat beside Lois. “He’s the best. He took me in when I was eight, after my parents died. I have two younger brothers as well. I think you’re gonna fit in great.”

The reassurance made her feel much better. Dick hadn’t lied to her a single time thus far (she could always tell if someone was lying), and he didn’t treat her like she was stupid for not being able to talk. People probably underestimated him, too, because of his crutches. Cass thought they were cool, especially the way they seemed to act as natural extensions of Dick’s body. 

The car pulled up to the biggest house she’d ever seen. It looked like a castle. She could probably hide there for years without anyone finding her. It was a good thing to know, just in case things didn’t work out. 

Lois came around and opened the door for her. Cass held the picture boards Dick had gifted her tightly in her hands as she followed the adults up the majestic front steps. 

When the front door opened, a older man with gray hair and a thin mustache appeared. His body language was very formal, but not in a cold way. 

“Ah, you must be Miss Cass,” he greeted with a warm smile. “My name is Alfred Pennyworth. I serve as Mr. Wayne’s butler.”

Dick reached forward and clasped the man on the shoulder. “He’s a lot more than that. Alfie’s family. Nothing would get done around here without him.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Master Dick. Please, come in. Master Bruce is waiting in the sitting room. I have taken the liberty of preparing some tea and biscuits.”

 “Where’s Thing One and Thing Two?” Dick asked as they followed the butler through the house. 

“Master Jason has taken Master Timothy to the movies. We thought it best not to overwhelm our new resident.”

“That’s probably smart,” Lois said with a knowing smile. Cass liked Lois. She was very no-nonsense, but not demanding in the way that her dad was. 

Dick turned to Cass. “My brothers can be a lot, but they’re good kids. Tim’s thirteen, and Jason just turned sixteen, so they’re both really close to you in age. You’re fourteen, right?”

She nodded. Her birthday had been another thing Dick had helped her express. He was really good at figuring out what she was trying to tell him. 

The room Alfred showed them to had blue, floral wallpaper and natural sunlight coming through the open windows. The furniture was dark wood with plush cushions the same hew as the walls. 

And there, sitting in the center, was Bruce Wayne. 

Cass took a moment to analyze the man, her new foster father. He looked slightly younger than her biological father; his black hair was just starting to show hints of gray. His smile lines and crow’s feet told Cass he smiled a lot, which made her happy. David Cain never smiled. 

He immediately stood to greet them. “Hi, Cass, my name is Bruce. Welcome to my home.”

His expression put her at ease. The man reminded her of some of the dads she’d seen on television growing up. He simply radiated safety. 

She offered a little wave and a careful smile of her own. She still wasn’t used to smiling. Her father had never allowed her to. 

“Let’s have a seat. Do you like tea? There’s a few different kinds of cookies, too.”

Cass shrugged. She didn’t remember ever having had tea. Or cookies, for that matter. For as long as she could remember, her diet had mainly consisted of water and MREs. Enough that she had never gone hungry (unless as a punishment for insubordination), but also nothing extra. 

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Dick declared as they took their seats. “Cass, how about you smell the different tea blends Alfred has prepared and see if any of them appeal to you?”

Cass nodded in approval. After weighing her options, she ended up choosing the one that had a twang of spice with a hint of sweetness. Alfred had called it “chai.” It paired well with the butler’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, which Cass adored. She had never tasted anything so warm and delicious in her entire life. Food had never been anything but fuel for her; preferences had never been allowed. If other foods were as delicious as these cookies, it was no wonder there was an entire television channel dedicated to eating.

The man took a sip of his own tea (it had a strong, floral aroma) before speaking again. “So, Cass, would you like to hear more about me and my family?”

She nodded eagerly. If she was going to live here, she wanted to know everything. It would also be a good opportunity to gauge how honest the man was. 

“All right. For starters, I’m a doctor. I work at Wayne Memorial Hospital in the emergency room. My parents were killed when I was a child, and it’s because of them that I do what I do. As of now, I’ve adopted three children. You know Dick, of course. He’s my oldest. He doesn’t live here anymore, but you’ll still see plenty of him around. Then there’s Jason, who’s sixteen and a sophomore at Gotham Academy. Tim, my youngest, is thirteen. He’s in eighth grade. 

“Another important thing to know is that all of my children have different medical issues that sometimes require them to take medicine or visit the doctor more frequently. We all do our best to help each other stay happy and healthy. This, of course, will include you now. I understand you were deprived of learning to speak, read, and  write. I’d like to help you with that, starting with teaching you some basic sign language to help you express your needs and emotions. You can continue to use the picture boards, too, if you’d like. I want you to do whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.”

As the man talked, Cass detected nothing but sincerity. Her gut had never been wrong before, so she felt pretty confident that Bruce was telling the truth. Also supporting that conclusion, Dick clearly felt safe around his father. His body language was completely relaxed, and he’d even let his crutches fall to the ground. 

A thought occurred to her. Bruce clearly loved his children; it was written all over his face. So if she was to become his child, would that mean he’d love her, too?

She hoped so. 

She looked down at her picture board, scanning the images for a response. There was a smiley face that seemed appropriate, so she pointed to it. Being so encouraged to express how she was feeling felt new and powerful. 

Cass couldn’t wait to see what else her new life had in store for her.

Chapter Text

Damian looked up at the large, looming building.

The man his mother had paid to fly him to America had dropped him off at the airport, right after they’d gotten through customs. He had no belongings or luggage. The only parting gift his mother had given him was a folder containing his birth certificate, passport, and a letter she’d written to his father.

Bruce Wayne.

Damian didn’t know much about his father. His grandfather had forbidden his mother to talk about him. Ra’s al Ghul had been deeply ashamed that his daughter had gotten pregnant while unmarried, and he had never missed an opportunity to throw that fact in Damian’s face.

Sometimes, however, Mother would whisper facts about his father in Damian’s ear as he fell asleep. He knew the man was extremely rich – almost on par with the al Ghuls themselves – and lived in Gotham City. He was also a doctor who worked in a hospital. That confused Damian. Why would a man of such high social standing choose to work amongst the riffraff? It wasn’t like he needed a day job.

At least his mother had clarified that his father owned the hospital in which he worked, named Wayne Memorial after his paternal grandparents.

Damian walked (definitely didn’t limp) through the ER doors, trying his best to ignore the searing pain in his back. He’d been able to hide it well so far. With his oversized sweater and long, loose pants hiding his bruises, none of the flight crew had suspected a thing on the nearly sixteen hour flight from Amman, Jordan to Gotham City, New Jersey. Though, it had been pure torture for Damian. Ever since his grandfather had disciplined him the previous day, every little movement sent razor blades slicing up and down his spine.

The waiting room was full of people. Damian waded through the crowded seating area until he got to the front. There was an older lady sitting behind a glass wall, typing on a computer and looking bored.

“I need to be given entry,” he declared, trying to sound confident. Among other languages, he spoke perfect English thanks to his private tutors.

The lady, after taking in his small form, raised her eyebrows. “Where are your mom and dad, sweetheart?” 

Her tone was condescending. It made Damian’s hackles rise. “My father is back there. He is the owner of this hospital, and I am his heir. My name is Damian Wayne.”

Now the lady looked confused. “I’ve seen thousands of pictures of Dr. Wayne’s kids, and I don’t remember you being one of them.”

Damian grimaced. Mother had mentioned that his father had picked up a few strays over the years. But none were true blood kin like himself.

“I have just recently entered this country,” he explained, trying to keep his voice steady. He was so close.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Another one? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

Damian didn’t know how to respond to that statement.

Luckily, she recovered. “Okay, sweetheart, c’mon back. I’ll bring ya to your dad.”

She pressed a hidden button, and the doors to the ER swung open.

Finally.

Bruce had just finished stitching up a leg laceration when Karen, the front desk clerk, found him.

“Dr. Wayne, your son’s in the break room.”

He froze, quickly moving down the roster in his mind. Dick was at work, and Jason was helping Barbara set up for a “Disabilities in Fiction” event at the Gotham City Public Library. That left Tim, since Karen had said ‘son,’ but his youngest was supposed to be at home with his sister and Alfred. How would he have gotten here, anyway? If Alfred had driven him, his butler would definitely have called ahead. According to his phone, Bruce didn’t have any missed calls. It just didn’t make any sense.

He rushed towards the break room, preparing for the worst. Tim hadn’t had a bad CF exacerbation in months, but Bruce knew his son’s health could turn on a dime. Jason’s, too, with his diabetes. And if Dick suddenly got a migraine bad enough to leave work…

Oh.

Bruce blinked at the little boy in front of him. His skin was a deep caramel, and he had bright green eyes and a hooked nose. In his hands, the boy clutched a folder to his chest as if it were the most important thing in the world. In that moment, Bruce knew two things: one, he had never met this child before in his life; and two, there was something very familiar about him.

“Hello, Father,” the boy greeted, his eyes darting to the side. “It is nice to meet you.”

Though his English was fluent, he definitely hadn’t been born in America. The kid used British pronunciations with a slight accent suggesting he came from somewhere in the Middle East.

Wait… ‘Father’?

This had to be a prank. The other doctors and hospital staff were always making him the butt of all of their “serial adopter” jokes. And if they had been annoying after he’d taken in Tim, they’d been insufferable since he’d adopted Cass last year.

Still, he had to hand it to ‘em: this was new. Though, it was taking it a bit too far, in his opinion. Who did this child belong to? Where were his parents?

Bruce cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you, too. May I ask who you are?”

The boy frowned. “My name is Damian. Damian Wayne. I am your son. My mother’s name is Talia al Ghul.”

Bruce was paralyzed, his heart stopping for a moment. Talia al Ghul… that was a name he hadn’t thought about in years – almost nine years, to be exact. He’d been on a two-week medical mission in Jordan when he’d met the most amazing woman, the daughter of some Old Money Jordanian aristocrat. They’d spent every spare moment of his trip together, sharing long dinners, nights out in town, and, of course, lots of passionate –

“Father?”

The little boy’s voice broke through the barrage of old memories. Bruce shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Now that he really was looking at Damian, he definitely saw Talia’s face in his features. He could see himself, too. And, he looked to be the right age to fit the timeline. But could it really be possible? He had given Talia his phone number and email before leaving Jordan, but she had never contacted him or responded to his attempts to reach out. So, Bruce had accepted that his fling had just been that – a fling. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d barely even given that trip a second thought since.

Until now, that is.

“I’m sorry, Damian,” he apologized. “This is, uh, quite the shock. I do remember your mother, but I was never aware that she had a child – that we had a child.”

God, he was never going to live this down.

The boy limped forward, holding out the folder – wait, limped?

“Damian, are you hurt?” Bruce asked, immediately slipping into full Doctor Mode.

“I’m fine,” the kid quickly assured. “This is for you. My mother sent it with me when she told me to find you.”

He accepted the folder but made no move to open it. “Damian, you were limping. Did something happen to you? Where is your mother?”

Damian kept his gaze lowered. “She is back in Jordan. I came here alone.”

“How did you get here?”

“I took a plane and then a bus.”

That couldn’t be right. The boy was only eight-years-old, if Bruce’s math was right. Surely he hadn’t made the trip all by himself.

Bruce knelt in front of his son (he’d need to confirm his paternity, of course, but something in his gut told him what Damian said was true). “Alright, we can talk more about that later. For now, I need to make you’re okay. Are you in pain anywhere?”

The boy remained silent.

“Damian, it’s very important you tell me the truth right now,” Bruce explained, keeping his tone gentle. His instincts told him his son hadn’t had an easy childhood. He was going to have to be very careful not to spook him. “If you’re hurt, I need to know so that I can help you.”

Damian’s lower lip trembled. Finally, he relented. “M-my back.”

His voice was small, as if he was afraid of being punished for admitting to pain.

“Thank you for telling me,” he praised softly. “Now, may I take a look?”

The boy’s hands shook as he slowly lifted up his sweater. Then, without twisting his body, he turned around for Bruce to see.

Dear God.

Across his lower-mid back, right under the bottom of his rib cage, was a deep, purple bruise. It went all the way across in a disturbingly straight line, as if he’d been hit with something narrow like a cane or rod. The skin around the bruise was puffy, obviously inflamed.

“Damian, I’m going to press lightly on your spine. Let me know if it hurts.”

He started just above the bruises, skillfully assessing each vertebra as he worked his way down. When he reached the point of injury, Damian inhaled sharply. There was step-off between his T12 and L1, with the paraspinal muscles on either side rigid and swollen.

The cause was all too clear: someone had horrifically abused this child – his child.

Before continuing, Bruce had to take a deep breath to calm himself. He had a depressing amount of experience dealing with abused and traumatized children, through both his job and his own kids. Being an ER physician showed him to worst humanity had to offer. But this was his son. His own flesh and blood who had been kept from him his entire life. If Bruce had only known about Damian’s existence earlier, this could have been avoided. It grieved him deeply and filled him with red-hot rage.

He pulled himself together. The last thing Damian needed at that moment was for Bruce to lose his temper. “I’m sorry you were hurt, kiddo. How did this happen?”

Damian pulled his sweater back down, his face twisting in what looked like shame. “I was disciplined by my grandfather.”

He inhaled sharply. “Your grandfather?”

During his time in Jordan, Bruce had only met Ra’s al Ghul once. The patriarch had been a severe, harsh man, caring only for his legacy and upholding his family’s honor. To think him capable of something like this sent a chill down Bruce’s spine.

His son nodded, swallowing hard. “It happened yesterday. My grandfather was hosting a few business colleagues from France. While speaking with them, I mistakenly used informal terms of address. As punishment, after his guests retired, Grandfather ordered me to kneel and bow down in front of him and apologize. When I did so, he hit me across the back with his cane, once for each error I had made.”

His son described the horrific events so calmly, as if they were normal and acceptable. It made Bruce’s blood boil. He needed to get Damian checked in officially so they could run some tests and imaging. Based on the mechanism of injury and clinical presentation, a fracture was very likely. And, if present, it was likely to be unstable, made worse by a transatlantic flight and continued ambulation. It was a miracle the kid was still upright as it was. The pain must have been excruciating.

Luckily, Crystal Brown was charge today. Bruce took out his phone and texted her, asking her to bring a stretcher to the break room and to activate a pediatric beta trauma alert.

“Damian, it is very important that you try to move anymore,” he instructed. “Stay as still as you can. One of my nurses is going to bring in a stretcher so we can get you into a room without jostling your back. A lot of people are going to be rushing in to treat you, but I’ll be with you the entire time.”

The little boy’s eyes widened with fear, but he nodded. “Y-yes, Father.”

“I’m so sorry this happened, Damian. It wasn’t right.”
“B-but I embarrassed him in front of guests. I deserved to be punished.”

Before Bruce could reassure his son that he definitely had not deserved to be beaten with a cane, Crystal and a younger nurse, Donna Troy, came into the break room, backboard in hand.

“Trauma two is ready,” she reported, her gaze moving to the little boy. “Who is this?”

“His name is Damian Wayne,” Bruce explained, “I’m concerned he may have a spinal fracture. Help me get him on the stretcher, please.”

Together, they carefully lowered Damian onto the flat surface, taking care to avoid bending or twisting his spine. Bruce talked Damian through the entire process, giving him clear instructions laced with encouragement. The kids was obedient – scarily so. He understood that the boy came from a very conservative family in an already patriarchal culture, but it was still unnerving. Dick had certainly not been this cooperative at age eight.

When they rolled him into the room, Donna immediately started taking Damian’s vital signs. The boy tensed at her touch, looking very uncomfortable. Bruce grabbed a C-collar and gently fastened it around the boy’s neck.

“This is just to make sure your neck stays still until your picture is taken. If it looks okay, we’ll be able to remove it. Like I told you earlier, a lot of people are going to come in now to help take care of you. I just need you to continue to lay still, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Damian replied submissively.

Amongst the trauma team coming in was Leslie, followed by a couple of her residents, a respiratory therapist, and a radiology technician.

It suddenly occurred to Bruce that during his medical mission, he’d learned a lot about Arabic culture. One, modesty was extremely valued in both males and females, so the typical exposure protocol for trauma patients would likely be very emotionally stressful. Two, that also meant Damian would be much more comfortable with male providers (that was why he had tensed when Donna had taken his blood pressure), though that would be a hard request to honor with Leslie running primary. He then realized that as the boy’s father, Bruce would have to step aside. At least, technically. He’d definitely insist on being part of the more physical parts of the exam, for Damian’s comfort above all else.

“Okay, this is Damian Wayne, age eight. Chief complaint is blunt force trauma from NAT to the T12 through L1 vertebrae. Mechanism of is injury flexion-distraction; patient was hit with a cane while bowing on his knees. Patient is ambulatory and neurologically intact with no signs of spinal cord involvement, but he did just get off a plane from Jordan. I request he be allowed to maintain modesty whenever possible with majority male providers preferred. I will help with the exam.”

He glanced at his son, who seemed to relax upon hearing Bruce’s words. He’d definitely made the right call, then.

Crystal seemed to understand as well. “Donna, could you go to the south bay and ask Victor to switch with you? Also, page Diana, social work, and child life.”

The young nurse nodded. “Of course. I think Clark’s covering the ER today for child life.”

Even better.

Leslie came up to his side and whispered in his ear, “Wayne? You get a new one I didn’t know about?”

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “Believe it or not, I didn’t know about this one, either, until about ten minutes ago. Evidently, he’s my long lost son. Biologically.”

The trauma surgeon raised an eyebrow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I swear, your life’s like a soap opera. Who beat him with a cane?”

“His grandfather,” Bruce said lowly. “I suspect a Chance fracture. There’s step-down between his vertebrae, and he’s been guarding his mid back.”

“Poor kid must be in so much pain,” the senior doctor grimaced. “I’ll let you take lead on the physical exam until Elliot gets here. I’ll make sure my residents keep him covered with blankets and let him keep his pants on underneath his gown.”

“Thank you, Leslie.”

With Bruce doing the vast majority of the hands-on work, they cut Damian’s shirt off and got him into an open-backed gown. Victor Stone, the male nurse Donna had traded places with, kept blankets draped over Damian’s exposed skin on any areas the doctors weren’t actively assessing.

Bruce performed the FAST ultrasound underneath the gown. “No free fluid seen. What do his portables look like?”

Leslie glanced at the radiology tech’s screen. “Chest and pelvis both look clear. “We’ll need a CT to assess his spine.”

“Damian, I have to insert a little plastic straw into your arm now,” Victor explained as he set up for an IV insertion. “It’ll be used to collect blood and give you fluids and medicine.”

The boy clenched his fists but made no protest.

“I’m right here, Damian,” Bruce reminded. “It’s going to be okay.”

By the time the IV was successfully inserted, Damian was ready for CT. Clark entered the room just as they were about to take him.

“Hi, Damian, my name is Clark,” he greeted with a gentle smile. “I’m going to go with you to get your picture taken, if that’s okay.”

His son gave the child life specialist serious side eye. It almost made Bruce laugh. “You mustn’t speak to me like a small child. I am fluent in five languages and can solve complex equations.”

That did make Bruce laugh. At least Damian didn’t seem to fear every adult.

Clark, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat. “Of course. My mistake. Have you ever had a CT scan before? Do you know what it entails?”

“No,” the boy responded quietly.

“Okay, then I’ll explain. It’s basically like a giant X-ray. You’ll be put on a table, then the table will slowly move you through the machine, which looks like a big ring. If they need contrast, they’ll inject into your IV. It won’t hurt at all.”

Damian loosened. “I see. That makes sense.”

At the other end of the unit, Bruce saw Selina and Diana at the nurse’s station. “Damian, would you be okay if I step aside for a moment to talk to some people? I’ll be waiting here when you and Clark get back from your scan.”

“Of course, Father. I do not require coddling.”

Clark gave him a look telling him they would be having a long conversation later. Bruce would have to tell him to get in line.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted as he approached the two women.

“Bruce, what the hell is going on?” Selina demanded. “Patient’s name is Damian Wayne?”

Bruce grimaced. “He just showed up and told me he’s my biological son. I didn’t know he existed before today.”

“And you believe him?”

“Based on his story it’s certainly possible, yes. I was going to investigate further before I noticed his injury. His grandfather beat him with a cane. He told me he flew from Jordan to Gotham all by himself then took a bus here.”

“Jordan?” Diana questioned. “Does he speak English?”

The doctor nodded. “Fluently, actually. According to himself, he speaks five languages. He was raised in an elitist billionaire’s family.”

Crystal came to join them with Damian’s folder. “You left this in the break room, Doc. Maybe it has more answers about your boy.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Crystal. Oh, and could you please page the on-call backup provider? I need to focus on Damian.”

The charge nurse smirked. “Already done. Bertinelli’s on her way.”

God bless nurses.

He opened the folder. Inside, there was a passport, what looked to be a governmental document of some kind (though it was written in Arabic), and a letter with his name on the envelope. From Talia, most likely.

Bruce decided to start with the document. He handed it over to Diana, who immediately started reading it.

“This is his birth certificate,” she explained. “It says his full name is Damian al Ghul Wayne, born March 1st. Mother is listed as Talia al Ghul and the father as Bruce Wayne. From what I can tell, this looks like the original copy.”

Selina sighed. “Well, at least that’ll make things a little easier to get you legal custody. You’ll still want to get a DNA test to confirm, though, if you want him granted citizenship. I’ll call CPS and get things moving.”

This was too much. Bruce’s head was going to explode.

“Damian will be back from CT soon,” he said suddenly. “I promised I’d be waiting for him.”

“I’ll come with you,” Diana offered.

“Good luck explaining this one to the kids, Bruce,” Selina said smugly. “You’ll have to call me and tell me how it goes.”

He looked at the social worker in exasperation. “Not. Helpful.”

“YOU HAVE A KID?”

Bruce winced at his eldest’s shrill tone. He’d already called the Manor and told Alfred and the other kids about their new brother. Their reactions had been similar. Except for Alfred, of course, who had simply hummed disapprovingly before promising to get a room and supplies ready for Wayne Manor’s newest resident.

“Technically, I now have five children.”

Damian had finally fallen asleep after being given some pain medication. After the CT scan had confirmed his Chance fracture, Tommy had admitted him to the pediatric surgical floor on full spinal precautions. Damian was scheduled to have surgery to repair the damage and insert spinal rods the next morning.

Using his access to Wayne Enterprise’s genetics lab, Bruce had sent a sample of his and Damian’s DNA to get tested. A perk of being a billionaire majority-shareholder of a massive company meant he could get answers much more quickly than if he had gone through the traditional channels. Sure enough, the lab had confirmed what Bruce had already known: Damian was his son.

“After all the shit you gave me about the ‘importance of protection’,” Dick scoffed, “you were off making babies in the Middle East. On a work trip, no less!”

“Just one baby, as far as I’m aware,” Bruce corrected, “and as I said, I’m just as shocked as you are. But the fact of the matter is, he’s here now, and I have a responsibility to take care of him. Especially since he’s injured.”

“Injured? How?”

“His grandfather broke his back while beating him with a cane. I’m unsure what other past abuse he’s suffered, but he obeys anything I say like he’s afraid of what I’ll do if he doesn’t.”

Dick gasped. “Shit. Is his back okay? Is he gonna have any permanent damage?”

“Tommy doesn’t think so,” Bruce assured. “Damian will have to have surgery in the morning to fix his damaged vertebrae, but thankfully his MRI showed no spinal cord involvement.”

“Good. How did the others take it?”

“About as well as you’d expect. Though, Jason said he was going to hold an intervention before my number of kids reaches the double digits.”

Dick chuckled. “As he should. It’s really getting out of hand. It was just you, me, and Alfred for ten, beautiful years. Now, you’re averaging almost a kid per year.”

Bruce sighed. “Well, in my defense, my plan was to be done after Tim. You’re the one who brought in Cass.”

“Oh, please. Don’t act like she isn’t your favorite.”

“I don’t have a favorite,” he responded automatically. Though, Cass had certainly brought immense joy into his life. She’d made so much progress in the past year. Now fluent in ASL, she was working with a speech therapist on talking out loud. She still preferred to sign (which Bruce 100% supported), but he very was excited to see how she would continue to learn and develop.

“Sure. Well, keep me updated on Damian. I’m excited to meet him.”

“Of course, Dragule. I will call you in the morning. I love you.”

“Love you too, Papin. Goodnight.”

With all of the necessary phone calls made, Bruce’s eyes drifted back to the unopened letter. He’d avoided reading it so far, but he could put it off no longer. It was time to face the music.

The stationary was of the highest quality. Talia’s words came out in a beautiful cursive, sucking Bruce in:

My Beloved Bruce,

Today you finally meet our son, Damian. It breaks my heart to send him away, but I can no longer keep him safe. The older he gets, the harsher Father’s punishments grow. It is only a matter of time before he does something permanently damaging. 

Despite my father’s disapproval of his conception, Damian has been raised since infancy to take over the al Ghul empire, as he is the sole heir. He is smarter than any peer of his could hope to be, and he’s had the best education available. Should you continue to refine him, he shall be a worthy successor to both of our legacies.

I am sorry I was unable to make the journey with him. I smuggled him out of my father’s house in the dead of night and paid a man to escort him to your city. I must stay here and deal with the fallout of my actions. I wish you all the best. Tell Damian he will always be my son, whom I love.

With all my heart,

Talia.