Oh Kal, You're Such A Troll

ooh interesting idea

I need more people to acknowledge that bruce is not gonna be a great parent, but i'll be damned if he doesn't try

His parents are dead, and as far as I've seen, the only real, not-explicitly-toxic relationship he has is with Alfred, his butler

and remember that, at least for a long while, as much as Alfred cared, he still drew a very clear (sometimes limiting) line between them as butler-and-master

so no Bruce does not know what he is doing with any of his relationships, familial or romantical

and no he probably will never really learn

he's going to make absoulutely horrible, relationship-ending choices, but can you truly look me in the eye and say that any batman does not truly love and value every single relationship he is in (asides from when dc butchers everyone's personalities)

so I need to see more fics like this,

a bruce who tries and fails,

who does not know how to deal with any of this,

and so hides behind a mask or a doof smile, uses his persona to try to deal with it, to try to cope

a broken batman who doesn't know what's wrong with him but desperately wants to fix it, only, if only, just to maintain whatever semblance of love he gets from his friends, his kids

maybe that's why he has so many, desperately searching for any warmth in the innocent's child eyes

fanfic writers where you at?

Doing a reread of Nightwing and honestly, I kinda forgot that whole thing at the start of Wolfman’s run with Raptor where Dick got buried alive and had to dig his way out and now I’m just imagining it coming up in conversation with Jason

Jason: yeah digging myself out was no fun at all. You start to feel all weird because of the lack of oxygen, and combine that with the mud under your fingers - a sensory nightmare. I still can’t touch mud.

Dick: oh yeah I get that totally. When I had to dig my way out, I remember looking at my hands and -

Jason: wait, dig your way out - when the fuck did that happen?!

Dick: yeah, it was just after that time you came to New York!

Jason: *bluescreening*

Dick: you steal my suit, I steal your shtick

Okay, We are all used to it and many love the current Bruce, secretive and emotionally constipated... And I know poor communication is a trope in their life at this point...

But, man, sometimes I miss the old Bruce, when it was just Dick and him, and Bruce didn't mind telling people he loved that kid like his own son, who tells Dick that he would rather lose his arms than him, that he couldn't even think of replacing him, who played with him and that was more important than anything.

I miss them.

What if after Jason's death, Alfred still found himself making food for that empty seat at the table

do you know. The stages of grief I went through after reading that. Hell, I INVENTED NEW STAGES. THIS IS NOT OKAY. WHAT KIND OF PERSON—

If there was one thing in Alfred’s life that he viewed as concrete, it was food. The smells of the kitchen in the early morning, before anyone but himself had woken, filled with sausage and toast. The sound of the oven’s timer going off, alerting him to the fact that he would soon be joined by the other occupants of the house. The slight breeze wafting through the only window he’d cared to open, allowing clear—or at least, as clear as could be found in Gotham—air through, into the house. 

   There was something . . . special about these moments. The time before anyone else had woken, when Alfred could be sure of his charges’ locations, sound asleep in their beds, and the fact that all would soon be sitting in front of him. Eating what he’d cooked, talking, acting as a family in ways it had taken them years to even attempt. 

   It was akin in feeling to the moment at dusk when the fires throughout the manor were low and Bruce could be found in his study, bent over a book. Where Jason, forever his father’s shadow—

   Well, he would—

   Alfred supposed that Bruce would be reading alone, now. Or perhaps not reading at all. None could blame the man if that were the case. The library, in recent years, had become Jason’s much in the way that the kitchen was Alfred’s. An unofficial rule, but a rule nonetheless. A silent promise that the space was theirs to maintain, to hide in, to control and enjoy as they saw fit. It was a unanimous understanding that, were you to enter, you were entering Jason’s space. 

   Alfred would not be surprised if the doors to the library didn’t open again. 

   It brought him pain unparalleled to think of that. To picture Jason’s favorite books, still lying on the table, covered in dust brought not by forgetfulness but by remembrance too strong to bear. To imagine Jason’s chair, pulled across the room to stand next to Bruce’s—though Jason would have denied—gone unused, left in the shadows of the curtains no one had drawn back in months. 

   Jason had always hated the dark. When entering the library, his first action would be ensuring that the fireplace was bright and the curtains held back, allowing for whatever light the day produced to stream into the room. 

   The easy explanation for this could have been Jason’s personality—bright and clear as the sunlight, and as warm as the fireplace. 

   Alfred Pennyworth had never been one to reach for the easy explanations. No, he’d worked hard to never be blind to the truth—and the truth, in this situation, was that Jason Todd was afraid of the dark. Afraid in a way that could only ever have been a result of past experiences. In a way that spoke of alleyways during the night and electricity bills gone unpaid. 

   It had been a week into Jason’s living with them that the elderly butler had deduced this, and less than a day after that, Jason’s room had possessed no less than three new light sources, two of which were nightlights. Jason had never mentioned it, but Alfred had read the boy’s gratefulness in the way he’d smiled as he’d helped prepare breakfast the very next morning.

   Preparing meals with Jason at his side had been an honor Alfred would not find the likes of again. To watch the boy go from a silent, timid thing to the grinning, confident teen he—that he’d been later in life. 

   Earning that boy’s trust had been and would forever be one of the greatest achievements of Alfred’s life. He would never be able to think of his kitchen the same, after it had been graced with Jason’s presence. He saw the boy’s touch in the labels, scrawled in a young hand, placed upon the unmarked spices. In the smaller apron that hung beside his own, colors the familiar red, yellow, and green of the Robin uniform. In the boxed macaroni and cheese that occupied the pantry, waiting to be doused in barbecue sauce for . . . 

   It was a comfort food of Jason’s, barbecue pasta. Something Alfred would never have thought to make until that boy had shyly suggested it one of those very first months. Now it was one of the most commonly-made dishes in the manor, if only because Alfred enjoyed the smile it had put on Jason’s face. 

   Another one of the young master’s comfort foods was—had been—orange juice. 

   Alfred knew logically that the reason for this was his previous poverty. That he’d seldom had orange juice as a child, resulting in a love for it later on in life when it was easily available. That was the logical conclusion.

   The one he found himself holding closer to his chest, though, was that orange juice was one of the very first things he’d ever given the boy—accompanied with a large breakfast, yes, but Jason had taken only the juice. 

   What was it about him that made Alfred so illogical? So willing to turn to emotion rather than truth? Was it that, when faced with a boy who’s emotions had so obviously been both the last rope holding him together and the knife ripping him apart, to fight fire with fire had been the only option? To meet Jason’s anger with kindness and his fear with comfort? Or was it that, after years of watching Dick become distant and Bruce forsake emotion for the mission, Alfred had become tired with such apathy?

   Was it, perhaps, that Alfred had taken one look at a scared, lonely boy and decided, I will not allow the same fate to befall him as has the previous two?

   It didn’t work, did it, a cruel part of his mind pointed out. In the end, you changed nothing—because it was always going to end this way.

   Hugging Jason more often than he had Dick, while wonderful, hadn’t changed anything in the end, had it?

   Alfred had done everything he could to stray Jason from the path set before him, and yet he had ended up in the ditch anyway. Bloody, broken, gone.

   Gone from the family. Gone from life. Gone from the mansion. Gone from his library . . . and gone from Alfred’s kitchen. 

   Alfred wondered how many more losses he could take before the kitchen started to feel more like a shrine to the dead rather than a refuge for the living. 

   It had already started to show, that transition. He could see it now, as he returned from setting the table to find the eldest of his charges standing in the doorway—watching. Silent, still, and dead in all but heartbeat.

   Hesitation should never have been the emotion a Wayne was met with when entering the kitchen, especially Bruce Wayne. And yet Alfred could read it all over the man’s face. 

   He, one who so often hid his face behind masks of indifference or stupidity or cruelty, was saying so openly Alfred found it in every line of his eyes, Am I allowed here?

   Alfred almost sighed. He didn’t, though, because giving a sound to the feeling coursing through his chest would have given it a tangibility he was not ready to allow. “Have a seat, Master Bruce.”

   Bruce was silent as he walked forward, pulled out a chair and did as he was told. Not a moment later, the middle—youngest—of Alfred’s charges appeared and, glancing at Bruce, did the same.

   “Did you sleep well, Master Dick?” The words felt mechanical in Alfred’s mouth, though no one would tell from the sound of them. 

   “I . . .” Dick trailed off, voice cracking halfway through, and Alfred didn’t turn. If something were truly wrong, he trusted that Bruce would handle it. 

   Instead, he plated the last of the blueberry scones, gathered the jams and brought them to the table. 

   Silence was awash through the room. Alfred could have sworn that neither Bruce nor Dick were breathing. 

   “I was unsure of your schedules today,” he said idly as he worked to place the scones within reach of both men. “So I prepared both heavy and light options for you to choose from.”

   “Alfred.”

   Alfred paused, abandoning the butter knife he had been situating in the jam, and looked at Bruce. 

   Bruce’s face was pale, his eyes dark with a pain Alfred would recognize anywhere. He’d learned to recognize it over two decades before and had not forgotten it since then. 

   “Master Bruce, what—”

   “You set—there are one too many plates, Alfred.”

  Alfred frowned, slightly insulted at the insinuation. He had been making breakfast for the occupants of the manor for years, and he had placed more table settings in his life than he could count. 

   “You made a plate for Jason, Alfie.” Dick’s voice was hoarse with pain. 

   Alfred’s breath hitched. Straightening, he re-examined the table—but he already knew what he would find.

   “It seems I have.”

   Bruce’s eyes were everywhere but the plate. They seemed glued to Alfred’s cheek, unable to reach his gaze. What was it, Alfred wondered, that he so feared finding there? Anger? Blame? Grief? Pain? “You . . . It’s fine, Alfred. Don’t . . . Just leave it.”

   Did he mean to ‘just leave it’, or ‘don’t just leave it’, Alfred wondered distantly as he stared at the plate. It was unused, of course—clean, and placed next to a fork, a butter crock, and . . . a cup of orange juice. 

   It was such an unassuming thing.

  No one would look at it and think, perhaps it shouldn’t exist.

   “I . . .” Alfred Pennyworth, former special forces, capable of crimes beyond the comprehension of even the Batman, found that his voice would no longer work. Because his throat had closed up or because he had no words to speak, he was unsure. All he knew was that his voice, usually the pillar with which he displayed his conviction, his strength, was gone. In the face of a mere plate.

   “Alfie?” Dick sounded young. Younger than he had in years, and so unsure for it.

   For once, Alfred could not bring himself to care.

   “I need a moment,” the butler said abruptly. “Excuse me, sirs.”

   And before either Bat could protest, he had fled the room.

   When he came back hours later, heart calmed not with peaceful breathing but with a chest so hollow that the beats were nothing but echoes, he found the orange juice gone. 

   It was a painful sort of relief that revelation brought, because he wasn’t sure he would have had the heart to pour it out himself.

JL finding out bat secrets, but it's in the most simple ways.

Barry: how old do you think Robin is?

Oliver: you met him last week, he's like 12

Barry: yeah but like, he was 14-ish when we started the justice league

Hal: maybe he's an immortal vampire like batman

Nightwing: that's ridiculous

Hal: we have aliens and gods on this team. Why not vampires?!

Wally: can't be immortal if he was 14 then but 12 now

Barry: I've cracked it, there's more than one

Oliver: Your genius amazes and astounds

Barry: So the first Robin should be like 30 by now

Dick: WHAT

Dick: 30! IM 26

Dick now in crisis: I AM NOT THAT OLD YET

Barry: Hold on, wha-

*Wally silently laughing at Dick despite them being almost the same age*

Oliver: Were you Robin?!?!?!

Dick: I can't believe this betrayal! It's called mid 20's and you're no longer invited to Christmas Ollie!

Oliver: I was invited to your Christmas!?!

Wally: Well, not anymore you're not

Hal: Can I come?

Dick: that's up to Batman

Hal:...

Dick: Coward, this is why you aren't invited to family Christmas

Barry: YOURE RELATED TO BATMAN?!

Oliver: I WAS INVITED TO BATMANS FAMILY CHRISTMAS?!?!?!

The Robins(and 1 signal) + The Onion/Reductress headlines

Other batfam

I love this panel from BATMAN/SUPERMAN: WORLD'S FINEST ISSUE #35.

Dick's friends with Arthur and Clark. They casually hang out. They watch games together.

Dick's 17 here. Arthur and Clark are presumably in their early 30's. This is just so brilliant, so Dick Grayson. Love it.

why do I suddenly want to write a 20 chapter fic....

The only acceptable trans Tim headcanon would be Tim introducing himself to the batfam as a boy from the get-go with such confidence that no one questions him. Then, his first solo case as Robin is investigating the disappearance of Jack and Janet Drake's "daughter," so he pretends to have a twin sister by forging a bunch of documents and photoshopping family pictures. He then fabricates evidence of her death, committing multiple crimes in the process, and holds a fake funeral at the end. Because if his previous name is dead to him, he's gonna kill it the Tim Drake way

I know Jason was dead-set on revenge and sticking it to Batman in UTRH but now I’m making myself sad thinking about a Jason who finally sees Bruce as Batman again after so many years, and he sees Nightwing and another Robin but he can’t hear them. For the first time ever, he’s not on their comm frequency. He’s locked out of Bruce’s quiet field orders and status checks. He can see Bruce but he can’t hear him. All he gets is the mask.

You don't understand there's a part of me that wants Alfred Pennyworth to never age but there's another part that's like

As Alfred grows older his body grows tired and everyone notices. And for Bruce that's his surrogate father. For everyone else that's Grandpa. Immediately there's a secret boot camp in the Batcave for everyone to start learning how to better care for themselves. Selina Kyle assisting of course.

There's already disability accommodations for Barbara so they just need to tweak and add some stuff. They've learned from her needs and start researching on how to care for the elderly for Alfred specifically.

On paper he's still a butler but really everyone (who lives or stays for a long time in Wayne manor) makes sure they learn how to do the hardwork for themselves. Most of his job is just to be there for them honestly. They insist on doing things for themselves.

But Alfred is Alfred. So he knows what's going on. And he's so deeply proud of them. He doesn't let him do anything he insists he can or wants do himself. He's still his own person after all, and they gradually learn his boundaries and patterns.

Bruce keeps paying him but not in a way you'd pay a butler usually. More in a way where you'd send money to your retired parents.

Do you see my vision?