Chapter Text
There were always murmurs at this time of year—breezy, champagne-laced conversations swirling through marble ballrooms and rooftop galas. Spring brought heat, and with it, gossip. Always the same.
"Did you see Wayne last week? Tightest suit I've ever seen."
"He's aged like fine wine—cold, hard, and somehow sexier."
"I'd kill to be the next scandal in that bed."
[M/N] never said anything. Not even when they leaned too close at the bar, winking like he was an outsider to his own marriage. He never told them that Bruce's bed was his own only when it was convenient. Never told them he hadn't shared a room with Bruce since they were both barely old enough to vote. Never told them that the man they drooled over had been sleeping with him, in the same position, the same rhythm, for nearly thirty years—and hadn't kissed him during it in almost half that time.
But tonight, Bruce was in his room. In his bed.
His hands dug into [M/N]'s hips with firm, familiar pressure as his cock dragged through him with precision, not passion. [M/N]'s fingers twisted into the sheets, his face pressed into the cool fabric as heat collected between his shoulder blades.
It wasn't painful—not really. But it wasn't fulfilling either. Not anymore.
He kept his gaze trained on the headboard, forcing himself to breathe through it. Sweat clung to his skin. The slap of Bruce's hips against his ass echoed through the room. It was methodical. Mechanical. Bruce never whispered anything. Never kissed the back of his neck. Just grunted, breathing hard, entirely focused on chasing his release.
"[M/N]," he managed to pant, voice tight, "move your hips."
"I need more," [M/N] whispered, barely audible over the sound of flesh and breath. "Please... move me. Just—"
Bruce's arm wrapped around him tightly, shifting him back with practiced force, pulling him deeper onto his cock—yet not in the direction [M/N] needed. Not toward that aching bundle of nerves. It was all thrust and push and tension. Harder, not better.
This was almost like another mission for himself, chasing his high and mind else where as Bruce's cock glides across his sensitive walls and a soft yelp when it happened.
He moaned softly, because his body responded to the friction even if his heart didn't. He arched into it slightly, hoping it might change something. Hoping maybe Bruce would notice. That maybe tonight would be different.
But then Bruce's palm cracked against his ass.
"Don't squeeze," he said, rough and detached.
[M/N] let out a sharp breath, his face flushed with both heat and shame. "Sorry," he murmured, voice broken. He stopped resisting. Let Bruce use him as he always did. The same position. The same rhythm. For thirty long years. In missionary at least the partner would let you see his face, for Bruce it had been Doggy or nothing with [M/N] and little to no foreplay.
It wasn't love. It was habit. It was ritual.
[M/N] let his mind wander.
He thought about the dry cleaning he had to pick up. The walk he owed Ace and Titus. The packed bag sitting by the door for his trip with Cass and Steph—his birthday trip. The one he was guilted into rescheduling because Bruce insisted on a last-minute gala, some sort of estate gala.
Bruce had said he would make it up tonight and [M/N] figured it was this, being here and being the cock that [M/N] occasionally shared with many of Bruce's conquests.
Now here he was. Stripped bare in every way. Bent forward on silk sheets that still smelled faintly of his perfume and his lotion. Letting himself be fucked by a man who'd already left him behind years ago, even if his body still showed up.
"Bruce," he moaned under his breath. Not quite begging. Not quite believing. "Bruce..." The sound made Bruce grip tighter. His thrusts grew erratic—closer. His breathing heavier. [M/N] felt the familiar swell of Bruce's body behind him, the telltale signs that it was almost over.
And still, [M/N] hadn't cum. He rarely did anymore.
But he didn't stop it. He never did. Even now, part of him hoped that if he gave enough, Bruce might remember that he once loved him. Or at least pretended well enough to make [M/N] believe it.
[M/N]'s body felt like it was on fire, body quivering as he felt Bruce release in him and his body freeze's and the feel of warmth in him didn't make him feel any better as [M/N] exhales out and body relaxing. He felt Bruce pull out and muttering from his husband as [M/N] laid on his stomach against his bed, pulling his pillow close to him.
He laid there, body spent and tired. Fuck, oh so tired but Bruce was still in the room and might need something. Something stupid maybe? Maybe something overbearingly ridiculous or hurtful. Nothing new with Bruce.
"Tomorrow night. The gala," Bruce said, his voice low and clipped as he pulled the zipper of his suit pants back into place. He had come straight from patrol—cowl off, hair damp with sweat—and [M/N] had let him. Again.
Bruce stood at the edge of the bed now, catching his breath while yanking the black armored shirt over his head and dragging it down over his torso. Every motion was mechanical, practiced. His body relaxed slightly once the suit was fully back in place.
"I need you to take care of something before it."
"What is it?" [M/N] asked, voice still rough from use. He shifted onto his side, arms folding under his cheek as he watched Bruce move. But the moment passed. Bruce was already slipping into his utility belt and reaching for his comm—already leaving.
And [M/N], as always, let him.
When the bedroom door finally clicked shut, [M/N] sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, before slowly pushing himself upright. His hips ached with a dull soreness that had become so familiar it was nearly background noise. There was a mess between his thighs—Bruce's, not his. The kind he'd clean up alone.
With effort, he rose, bare feet hitting the soft carpet. He reached for his robe, still hanging off the back of his closet door, and draped it loosely around his shoulders. It was warm, heavy, comforting in the absence Bruce left behind.
As he turned to head toward the bathroom, something caught his eye—something sitting atop the mantle of his private fireplace.
His bedroom was a quieter, smaller mirror of Bruce's master suite. The closet wasn't as deep, the view a little more obscured. Where Bruce's window overlooked the full estate, [M/N]'s view faced the garden—the one Bruce once promised he'd plant for him.
He'd imagined it once: a winding rose garden, shaded trellises, blooms in every color. It was a fantasy that had never come to life. Now, it was just sculpted hedges shaped like jungle animals—gaudy, commissioned nonsense that Bruce thought was "whimsical." Damian used them for sword training, slicing into what should have been climbing roses.
The curtains stayed drawn most days. The garden wasn't what he wanted to see.
His room was neat and dark, but warm. The bed was soft. The oak furniture all matched. Photos of their family hung above the bedframe—snapshots of Cass mid-kick, Tim asleep at a desk, Jason's mugshot before he escaped jail that night, Dick and Haley, Duke with his shy smile. A box of nails still sat on the dresser from when [M/N] started hanging new frames but hadn't finished. Bruce had walked in mid-task, still in uniform. One look and [M/N] had been coaxed into bed again.
That was how it always went lately. Mission, body, withdrawal.
But now there was something new. A box. He moved to the fireplace, tying the belt of his robe loosely as he reached for the velvet lid. It was small, square, and clearly old—but well-kept. Clean. Cared for.
Bruce's games usually came in cold silences or cryptic texts. But this... this was something else.
He opened the box slowly. His breath caught. Inside lay Martha Wayne's pearls.
They gleamed softly in the low firelight. [M/N] had only worn them once—on their wedding day. A quiet ceremony. Private. In the eyes of the law and Judge with no press, no guests. Only Alfred and a contract Bruce made him sign the night before.
He had been too in love to notice, back then.
Too starry-eyed to realize that every promise Bruce made came with quiet terms. That every gesture of affection had a role attached. And [M/N] had stepped into it gladly. He was Bruce's soft space, his anchor, his safe place. The one person who could read the storm in Bruce's shoulders, the tension in his eyes.
And Bruce never said it. But [M/N] had always known.
Now, holding the pearls gently in his hands, [M/N] allowed a small smile. Maybe this was Bruce's way of saying sorry. An apology for making him cancel the first night of his birthday trip. Maybe this gala wasn't just another stiff obligation.
Maybe Bruce wanted him there. Wanted him to wear these. Maybe this meant something.
He sighed softly and set the box down, brushing his thumb across the top one last time. He would wear them. Of course he would. It was a small thing. But sometimes... sometimes, small things were the only things left.
And he was always the one who stayed. Always the one who showed up.
No matter how many promises were left undone. No matter how often he was left waiting for a garden that never bloomed.
++++++
Most mornings after patrol were predictable in their weight. Sometimes a case ended in ways it shouldn't have. Sometimes it was Joker, or Dr. Hush, or Scarecrow—or whoever Gotham's villain of the week was that rubbed them the wrong way.
[M/N] awoke before the others as usual, slipping on soft house shoes and taking Ace and Titus for their morning walk along the gated perimeter of the Wayne estate. The sun barely crested over the horizon, but the dogs seemed to enjoy the calm—tails swaying, ears flicking at every birdcall. They came back in through the kitchen door, their paws wet with dew, and [M/N] toweled them off before stepping in to help Alfred.
Breakfast always mattered more to [M/N] than anyone else in the house. Not because they expected it—but because he remembered.
Over the years, their diets had changed, evolved, fluctuated. Yet [M/N] kept track of every shift, every new restriction, every weird craving. It wasn't just breakfast. It was a ritual. A small gift he could give, even when the rest of the day felt hollow.
Bruce, for all his brooding, had an undeniable sweet tooth. Even with the strict regimen he kept, his body burning through calories at alarming rates, [M/N] always made sure his plate was balanced: protein and fruit for show, indulgence for the soul. French toast soaked in syrup, dripping with blueberries and bananas. If he could sneak it in before Alfred noticed, a small scoop of vanilla ice cream—just enough to soften Bruce's grimace into something warmer. Coffee, strong and black. A muffin for the road, usually eaten behind the wheel of his car as Bruce transformed into the public's darling billionaire.
Dick was different. His palate had grown more athletic over the years. Protein-heavy. Health-focused. But [M/N] still remembered how, as a boy, Dick would wolf down cereal and sandwiches and talk with his mouth full. Now, when he was in Gotham—rare as it was—[M/N] made him breakfast burritos from scratch. Protein shakes tailored to his needs, sometimes shared between him and the others.
Jason preferred quick food—efficient, quiet. But he had a soft spot for maple-bacon pancakes with chocolate chips melted into the center. He liked orange juice. Lots of it. Whenever Jason "dropped by" for no reason, he'd raid the fridge, eating leftovers marked for disposal. [M/N] pretended not to notice. He liked seeing him eat.
Tim was more like Bruce than anyone wanted to admit. A sweet tooth buried under sleeplessness and half-eaten egg plates. He usually hovered near the bottom of the coffee pot, hoping for one last cup. [M/N] made him bacon and cheese sandwiches, donuts when he could, and boiled eggs—because at least those stayed down.
Cass and Stephanie had simpler tastes. Chocolate chip waffles, fruit cups, and granola with plain yogurt. Steph always took too long with her plate; Cass always stole her fruit. Sometimes Steph got creative liberty and somehow found edible glitter in the pantry on her items, even if that glitter might be expired and honestly Cass ate what was given but sometimes on a blue moon ask for something different like steak and eggs and cheddar on the side for her eggs.
Damian... was Damian. He demanded perfection from Alfred's dishes and discarded anything [M/N] had touched. He made no secret of it. Even if Dick or Alfred chided him lightly, Bruce always seemed to vanish before a proper scolding could land. Still, [M/N] cooked for Damian. Quietly. Never mentioning it. He let Alfred serve the plate so the boy wouldn't know.
Duke was easy. Flexible. He liked turkey bacon, bran muffins, eggs, hash browns, and pastries if they were still warm. He ate whatever was offered and always thanked whoever served him. The boy was far easier to get along with than most family members. Maybe before he rotten and scorn [M/N] like the others sometimes or be embarrassed. A sweetheart compared to most with [M/N].
Alfred handled most of the cooking these days, but [M/N] had slowly learned his ways. After retiring from vigilante work, he'd needed purpose. The kitchen filled that silence.
Now he sat at the table, sipping his iced coffee, watching his family eat.
Their voices blended around him—gripes about the upcoming gala, a complaint about wardrobe, a discussion of whether someone would have to dance this year. No one mentioned him. No one looked his way. Even Bruce.
[M/N] stirred his scrambled eggs, dragging his fork through the pale yellow without lifting them to his lips. Just something to do with his hands. His eyes drifted to Bruce. Watched him eat. Waited—for a glance, for a nod, for a simple, "Happy Birthday."
But it never came.
The only sound was cutlery against porcelain. The scrape of forks. The clink of spoons. Alfred, setting a fresh pot of coffee between them without a word, was the only one who met his eyes.
And even that wasn't enough to keep the sting from settling in his chest. [M/N] took another sip of coffee. It was just another day. Just another morning. The quiet table. The same rhythm. The same routine.
God, this routine was driving him insane.
"Bruce—" [M/N] began, his voice soft, hopeful. Just enough to nudge Bruce's attention, to draw even the slightest glance. Maybe it would jog his memory. A nod, a hum, a quiet "Happy Birthday"—he would've taken anything.
"The gala will be at the Barnes estate," Bruce spoke instead, cutting through the air like a blade. He didn't look up. He didn't look at [M/N]. Just reached for his napkin and dabbed at his mouth with practiced indifference. "I expect at least three of you to attend," he added, his sharp gaze shifting to the children now seated at the table.
A collective groan echoed.
"Not you, Stephanie," Bruce added without missing a beat.
"Nice," Steph grinned, triumphant, flipping the others off when Jason predictably flipped her off first.
"Or you, Jason," Bruce continued, and [M/N] barely held in a snicker as Jason's head dropped back in defeat.
"Father, must I—" Damian started, only to be silenced by one lifted eyebrow. He grumbled, stabbing his fruit like it insulted him personally.
"I'd rather dig through cold cases than talk to rich old men," Tim muttered, chin in his hand.
"Yes," Bruce sighed, "and you too, Cass—"
But Cassandra had already ghosted from the table. No one even saw her go. Bruce exhaled again and sipped his coffee. Across from him, Dick stood, picking up his plate.
"I'll go, B," he said with a hum, walking toward the kitchen. "Kinda miss rich people food."
[M/N] snorted softly, hiding the smile behind his hand. That boy had grown up on catered meals and five-star cuisine. The comment was ridiculous—but so Dick. His gaze lingered on his son's back before it dropped to the cold eggs on his plate. A bite here, a sip of coffee there. Just something to keep his hands moving.
Maybe his birthday could wait. None of the kids had remembered. Except for Dick, and only with a one-armed hug this morning—dry, casual, almost out of obligation. Not the kind you give on a birthday. Still, [M/N] supposed it was better than nothing.
He'd had worse birthdays.
"You too," Bruce said suddenly, standing from the table. His plate was clean, his coffee drained.
[M/N] froze mid-motion. He was holding Bruce's dishes, halfway turned toward the kitchen. Slowly, his eyes lifted, searching Bruce's face for clarity.
"You want me there?" he asked. It came out smaller than he intended.
It had been years since Bruce asked him to attend a formal gala. The press events, the charity work, the Wayne Foundation handshakes—those were expected. But the real galas, the high-profile evenings with the elite? Bruce had stopped asking. The kids went instead. Or Bruce went alone. Sometimes [M/N] found out the event had happened only by seeing it later in the papers.
So yes—he was surprised.
"Yes, you," Bruce replied, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, his back already turned. "You're wearing my ring, aren't you? And the name Wayne?"
[M/N] wasn't sure if Bruce was teasing or making a point—but it didn't matter. Something warm sparked in his chest.
"Yes," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I am."
"Then I expect you ready by seven," Bruce called back, already disappearing into the hallway. "Don't forget the pearls."
[M/N] stood there a moment longer, still holding the dishes. His chest fluttered with something hopeful. A smile bloomed fully across his face.
Maybe this was his birthday surprise. They had remembered. Maybe this was just Bruce's strange, roundabout way of making up for it. And the kids—surely they were in on it too. A surprise party. It had been years since the last one.
He could almost swoon at the idea.
"You know he's doing it out of obligation, correct?"
The words hit like a slap.
Just as [M/N] felt the soft flutter of excitement—the fragile, foolish hope fluttering in his chest—it withered. Weeds took root in his stomach. The warmth drained away, replaced with a familiar chill. Slowly, he turned his head toward Damian, the youngest, the sharpest, the most complicated of the children. His prickly boy.
"Damian," [M/N] said gently, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "That isn't very nice."
He clutched the porcelain plates tighter in his hands, expensive china Bruce insisted on keeping for "special occasions." The edges dug into his palms. He didn't want to drop them—not because of the cost, but because he didn't want to give Bruce a reason to take back the invitation. Not now. Not when it felt like maybe, just maybe, Bruce remembered.
"Your father wants to take me because he loves me."
"So you think he loves you." Damian's tone was flat, almost amused. He scoffed, his lip curling with disdain. "I pity your mind and its naivety."
"Damian."
"What?" the boy challenged, tilting his head slightly. He glanced over at Duke and Jason with an arched brow, as if daring them to deny it.
Neither did. Jason, leaning back in his chair, lazily lifted his eyes toward them. "It's true," he muttered, tone neutral. "B has to show his husband sometimes. Pops is like a prop."
[M/N] didn't turn. Didn't move. He felt the words like ice water down his back.
Duke shifted in his seat. His eyes—kind, brown—glanced toward [M/N] and hesitated. "That's not right," he said quietly. "He's Bruce's husband for a reason."
"Out of obligation. Again," Damian repeated, as if it were a fact. He pushed his chair back and stood, his expression unbothered. "Ally, then friend, now just a decoration in the manor. Father truly knows how to pick his props."
Alfred had just entered, apron immaculate as always, ready to begin clearing the breakfast dishes. He paused sharply, eyes narrowing.
"Master Damian—" Alfred began, a warning already building in his tone.
But before he could finish, a sharp sound cracked the air. The plate.
One of the fine porcelain dishes had slipped from [M/N]'s trembling fingers and shattered on the floor. The sting hit his palm a heartbeat later—thin ceramic had nicked him, leaving a faint, bleeding cut along the base of his hand.
[M/N] didn't flinch. He stared at the floor as Alfred immediately moved forward, his voice lower now, more worried.
"Come. Let me see," the butler said softly, gently prying the rest of the plates from [M/N]'s arms. He didn't argue. He let Alfred guide him to the hall bathroom, the warmth of the butler's hands firm, careful, familiar.
Behind them, the room remained silent. No one said anything. No apologies. No glances. Just the clink of silverware. The scrape of a chair. Damian's soft footsteps retreating down the hall. And [M/N], quiet, letting himself be tended to—letting the pain in his hand distract him from the one swelling behind his ribs.
++++++
[M/N] had a busy day ahead of him, he remembered his chore list when he was being fucked that morning and completed each one. Each detail he had written in, squeezed in some stuff and the dry cleaning home before 6:30 and the perfect time to get ready.
He got in the shower and cleaned well before blow drying himself on the warm bathroom tile he had wished and wished Bruce got for him. He got it because Bruce wanted sex and missed Selina so [M/N] gave it for that price.
It felt good in the winter.
[M/N] changed into the suit Alfred told him to wear and finished it off by doing his hair and hand slowly grasping the beautiful pearls of Martha Wayne. The woman and her husband haunts Bruce's narrative and oh, the man they made today would make them both very proud and very sad.
Sometimes he wondered if they would have liked him? Maybe adore him more and slap some sense into Bruce and remind him of his behavior. [M/N] would pay to witness that, money, deeds or his soul.
Once he finished by clipping the pearls around his neck and slide it under his shirt a bit, per Bruce's usual demand of it when he did ask [M/N] to wear it. Basically, the one time when they got married in a stale judge chamber with Alfred and Harvey as witnesses. To protect them and [M/N].
He hoped he was in the equitation of Bruce's protection.
[M/N] walked down the hallway, knocking on the doors of his children as he passed by, saying as he walked passed. "Ten minute warning!" He said as he walked down the stairs and moved to the seat, fixing himself as he waited. His eyes glanced over the furniture and fixed the vase of beautiful white carnations and sighs to himself as he checked his watch as white lines appeared before him.
6:50 PM
"Come on." He felt for his phone and opened, checking messages and then emails just as seven hit and Ace comes in. His muzzle nuzzling [M/N] their snouts against his pants as [M/N] decided to call Bruce. He had text multiple times and Alfred twice, he didn't pick up at all nor the kids. He didn't want to rush up and hurry them along.
Not an answer, none at all. [M/N] shifted in his seat and fiddled with the pearls around his finger as he listened to the soft breathing of the two dogs and clicking of the cloak down the hall. His eyes shifted to the stairs than to the hallway from the batcave or library.
Just lukewarm silence as 7:30 hit and [M/N] loosened his tie a bit, leaning into the seat as the dogs perk up suddenly. [M/N] glanced up when the front door open, hoping to see his husband and children dressed in their uniforms and from a hard early night of patrol to save their beloved city.
But no, it was Alfred in his chauffer outfit, hat tucked under his arm and [M/N] felt his heart drop down to the depths of his stomach and into the tiny intestine tingle. Hope that Bruce loved him, and proving Damian was correct made every pain he had before seem little to now.
"Did..they ask where I was?" [M/N] managed to ask but his tongue felt heavy and lips prickled like metal.
"They did not, I tried to interfere and remind them but the Master was in a rush to be there with the others." Alfred exhale as he dreads the next part. "Master Bruce also instructed me to remind you of brining his Mother's pearls for cleaning and soon."
[M/N]'s heart squeezed and all the air in him deflated as his thumb circles over the pearl. Of course, [M/N] always the reliable and busy would take the pearls to get clean no worry about it. Of course that's what Bruce meant. "I see," [M/N] stood up as Ace and Titus whined from the lost as [M/N] steps towards the stairs without looking at Alfred. "I wish to be alone."
"Are you certain?" Alfred asked as he took steps closer, "I can prepare dinner or even..order out? I don-"
"That will be all Alfred." [M/N] stated firmly despite the wobble of his lips. "Goodnight." And [M/N] speed walks to his room, undoing his tie, pulling his belt off once he got into his room, door closed as he throws his belt into the chair in the corner of his room. His hands shake as he unclipped the pearls and gripped them, his eyes blurry with tears that he wiped off quickly, angrily.
He could take them or claim he did, throw these mementos off the balcony and blame the jewlery, let Bruce get himself worked up on memories of a dead woman who haunts his every moment. Let him break down piece by piece like he seem to do to [M/N].
As much as it kills him, it hurt to think that and it hurt to think about hurting bruce that way. No, instead he placed the pearls back in their place of the worn jewelry box and sighed, leaning his forehead on the cool fireplace mantle to take a moment for himself.
[M/N] began unbuttoning his shirt slowly, mind drifting in a thousand directions. He dropped the fabric into the hamper, then stared blankly at the corner of the room. He felt the burn prickling behind his eyes, the kind of exhaustion that makes you want to order food you’ll regret later, bury yourself under blankets, and cry to a cheap soap opera rerun like a lonely, middle-aged woman chasing love that always escaped her.
At least those women were aiming for a man. [M/N], meanwhile, was stuck with one—married nearly forty years to a man who, at this very moment, was at a glittering gala, dazzling rich guests and enjoying “family time” with the children he dragged from the manor.
God, he would kill for some bonbons. Maybe greasy, extra cheese pizza.
He reached for his phone, only for a sharp clack to echo from behind him.
Instinct took over. [M/N]'s hand flew to the mantel, yanking out the concealed batarang behind the photo from his and Bruce’s quiet courthouse wedding. He whipped the weapon toward the sound without hesitation. A soft shink followed.
When he turned, breath caught in his throat.
The batarang had embedded itself into a small box sitting neatly on the floor. It was wrapped in old newspaper, tied with coarse string—something oddly ominous in its laziness, like a gift half-heartedly prepared but carefully placed. Suspicion prickled up his spine.
He dropped his wallet and phone on the armchair by the fireplace and approached the box. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stared at it for a moment before carefully untying the brittle string. The newspaper was yellowed, smelling faintly of attic dust and lint. No card. No note.
[M/N] hesitated. He already had two gifts and those were enough—Duke’s Nightwing phone case (which [M/N] adored because he collected their merchandise like trophies), Alfred’s handpicked vinyl records of his favorite old singers—there hadn’t been much. Not from Bruce. A few dry birthday texts from the JLA, and that was it.
He figured this must be from one of the kids. Maybe another one of Damian’s attempts at a gag gift, like the year he gave him a shadow box full of pinned butterflies. Damian had insisted they were fake, but [M/N] still turned green at the sight.
“What Father does to you."
[M/N] hadn’t left his bedroom for the rest of the day. So naturally, he expected something worse this year. He peeled the paper away with careful fingers and lifted the lid of the box.
And there it was—a doll.
His breath caught in his throat.
A doll of him. Handmade. Stitched with care, and unsettling detail. It wore the Tracker suit—his old vigilante gear from years ago. Navy and black, the custom cowl that matched Bruce’s, the bat symbol stitched onto the chest like a sigil of loyalty. The miniature cape fluttered when he moved it, and even the boots were scuffed in the same places his real ones had been. Someone had remembered those marks.
Even the hair—just peeking out beneath the doll's mask—matched his tone. His eyes were replaced with black buttons, round and glassy, staring up at him with eerie devotion. Still, despite the uncanny weight of it all, [M/N] smiled. A soft, fragile thing that cracked open his chest like sunlight after a storm.
He pulled the doll to his chest and hugged it gently, cradling it like a long-lost Robin. He hummed to it, the way he used to when patching up bruises and coaxing children into sleep after patrols. The seams didn’t creak, the stitches didn’t split. The doll remained still, soft, and present.
[M/N] pressed his cheek to its head, feeling the sweat bead just below his eye and trail down his skin. He wiped it away with his shoulder.
A tear, maybe. Or sweat. He told himself it was sweat. Another quiet lie to live with.
He changed into his pajamas quietly, folding his clothes with care. The doll sat propped up on his pillow, its button eyes facing him in silent vigil. [M/N] shifted beneath the blankets, settling into the cool sheets as he brought the covers up to his chest. He rolled onto his side and reached for the doll, lifting it gently into the air. His fingers played with its stitched, gloved hands, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.
His gaze wandered toward the photograph on the nightstand, hoping the doll could sit beside his favorite picture. It was one of Bruce at a gala long ago, holding a much younger Dick who was mid-sob, red-faced and furious. [M/N] remembered that day clearly—Dick had thrown a tantrum over something trivial, probably the fit of his bowtie or some food he didn’t like, and had held his breath in protest until he nearly passed out. The photo had caught the exact moment he crumpled against Bruce’s shoulder, tears streaking his face while Bruce looked completely lost, awkward, and painfully unsure of what to do.
It had always made [M/N] laugh, and ache a little.
But the reminder of the day’s events hit him like a slap to the chest. That smile faded. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he grabbed the frame and slapped it face-down on the table, turning over with a sharp huff.
A few seconds passed.
Then he groaned softly and rolled back, guilt crawling in. Carefully, he turned the picture upright again and examined the glass for cracks. None. With a sigh, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Bruce’s photographed cheek.
He placed the frame back in its usual spot on the nightstand—always within reach, always facing him at night.
It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? A grown man with a doll and a photograph for company. A man alone in a mansion that once felt like a home. Now it was just a shell filled with memories, aging portraits, and the ghosts of conversations left unfinished, promises growing cobwebs.
Alfred still lingered in the halls, of course. The animals too. And the walls were dressed in Wayne legacy—ornate frames, family heirlooms, trophies polished to gleam under cold lighting.
But none of it mattered tonight.
He curled around the doll, arms wrapped around it like it might give something back. His cheek rested against the soft fabric stitched where the jawline would be. He closed his eyes, listening to the silence. Missing the sound of Bruce's voice, the solid weight of his hand on his back after a long day. Missing the man who was still under the same roof but hadn’t looked at him like he used to in years. Missed his babies, his kids who loved him or made an effort to show they loved him.
[M/N] buried his face against the doll’s chest. It smelled faintly of cedar and lint from the box and something familiar—fabric softener maybe, or Bruce? He couldn't tell. He couldn't remember what his husband smells like.
He missed his husband so much. Even when Bruce was just feet away. Even with the knowledge he was alive, healthy, working late downstairs in the Cave. Out working as Bruce Wayne or Brucie Wayne or in the Watchtower doing work and saving the world that made [M/N] feel alienated.
The ache didn’t go away.
It only pressed in tighter the longer he laid there, hugging a replica of his younger self, a past that he once lived and loved, like it could hold him back.