Author's Note: This chapter is set in the same timeline as my Super Sons story. Damian is thirteen and is currently working with the Teen Titans. Bruce is in his mid-forties and enjoying a quiet night without either Alfred or Damian to restrict his idea of fun on patrol. Unfortunately, the evening does not stay fun for long, thanks to the interference of one very overconfident teenage superhero and his typical brand of arrogance.

Bruce's POV.

Father/Son bonding ensues.

Please read and review.

Enjoy.

Fathers 3

Bruce

I have the night to myself. Alfred is visiting family in England for the next fortnight and Damian is away with the Titans until at least the weekend's conclusion, some four days from now. As I said, I have the night to myself. It has been some time. I leave for patrol earlier than usual, as a treat for all my patience with the boy over the last year. Puberty has made his arrogance not only unpalatable, but often insufferable over prolonged periods of time in his company. I do not consider myself a failed parent in that respect. His overconfidence is not a symptom of his adolescence, but a perpetual flaw in an otherwise impeccable young man. Once he remembers the importance of humility in our line of work, things will not be as terse between us.

Upon reaching the city, I follow the same patrol pattern as I have for the last fifteen years. The Narrows, for once, prove quiet for the time of year. I only need to stop one carjack, two examples of petty theft and one attempted sexual assault on a clinic nurse walking home after a long shift. She will not suffer any lasting trauma from the incident. I arrived in adequate time to ensure that. Park Row, the Bowery, Amusement Mile and the Industrial District fall in quick succession as Batman's prolonged influence on crime finally begins to reap lasting benefits.

It has taken fifteen years, countless thousands of thugs and dozens of psychopaths, but crime in this city has reduced dramatically. Coupled with nearly twelve years of reliable and tireless service from the GCPD and Jim Gordon, it allows me to stand atop of Gotham Cathedral and do something I have waited years to do. I smile at the city below. It is only a momentary reprieve, but it feels wonderful to look at Gotham's skyline and be content things are in hand. The moment passes. My smile disappears. But the mood of levity continues as I move towards the Financial District. Tonight is actually proving to be fun. Remarkable.

I find a stiffer challenge awaiting me in the Diamond District some forty-five minutes later. An underground fight-club has emerged in the last month, leaving several broken and brain-damaged combatants in its wake. Although no-one has died, lives and families have been ruined by the club's existence and its lack of weight classes or etiquette. I have spent three weeks tracking down the organisers and their pit bosses so we might have words. All intelligence points to a sub-terranean parking complex below Zanzibar Industries' corporate headquarters. Those running this club and its 'franchises' in other areas of Gotham, are CEOs within the company. It is a sickening abuse of power and privilege, considering the majority of their fallen contenders were low-level employees working underneath them.

Not anymore.

The entrance to the building itself is unguarded. However the main doors are locked and all pedestrian access to the parking complex is cut off by various security measures. I would prefer stealth to brute force in this scenario. Despite this, from what I have gathered, my chances of successfully incapacitating this illegal fighting racket are equal whether I infiltrate quietly or not. The night has seen me part with only minimal equipment from my utility belt. I have more than enough in my arsenal to take down a small army. I already know there is not a small army waiting for me inside. With that in mind, I opt for the direct approach.

Three kicks force the doors of the main plaza open. Once inside I quickly make my way to the lower levels of the parking complex, using thermal-imaging to guide me down. I detect a minimum of fifty heat signatures emanating from the bottom floor of the complex. None of them seem aware of my intrusion yet. Perhaps stealth still is a viable option going forward. I stay close to the shadows as I begin to hear the cheers of an enthusiastic crowd echo towards me. Two minutes of careful manoeuvring finds me on the fringes of a make-shift square ring.

From what I can gather, the ring itself is composed of little more than sheets of corrugated iron with wooden ballasts positioned to prevent its collapse. The crowd, three deep in places, surrounds the outside of the ring. Several of them have small firearms, likely privately-owned pistols or similar weaponry. Thermal imaging from this distance identifies two signatures brawling within this 'arena'. Judging by the crowd's enthusiasm, I would imagine the contest is only just beginning. This presents a perfect opportunity for a surprise attack, since everyone is too engrossed in the spectacle to notice moving shadows behind them.

I negotiate a path several feet beyond the scope of the overhead florescent lighting until I have rounded two corners of the ring. It is from this new vantage point that I clearly identify Alistair Fischer, the man I have determined to be the progenitor of this barbaric show, sitting on a chair atop of a raised platform. He is flanked by two of his conspirators, Michael Burns and Wayne Lipton, both of whom brandish semi-automatic rifles that look custom-built. All three are wearing business suits and sinister smiles. These men are forcing their staff to fight one another in these contests, either on the promise of retention within the company or a large cash incentive for the victor. At present, I am undecided which, but lean towards being retained as the likely prize.

I count the number of firearms in the immediate vicinity whilst continuing to circle the ring. Twenty-two. No-one has additional magazines. The majority of the pistols I have observed possess a magazine of fifteen rounds or less. Only the semi-automatics of Burns and Lipton have a greater ammunition capacity, but it is still only thirty per weapon. All told, this room houses a maximum total of three-hundred and sixty rounds. Compared to typical security contingents employed by Gotham's crime syndicates and supervillains, this is child's play.

The only light source is directly over the ring. All other lights within the complex have been manually turned off. This means once I destroy the bulbs, the only individual with any night-vision capabilities is me. With that in mind, I prepare a batarang and take aim.

Then the crowd falls deathly silent. For a moment, I fear my presence has somehow been discovered, but it is far worse than that.

Robin has just incapacitated both combatants and is standing in the centre of the ring.

"Alistair Fischer, consider yourself under arrest." The boy yells before launching a volley of shuriken in the man's general direction, behind whom I happen to be standing. I barely dodge two of them that are wide of the mark. Fischer immediately becomes aware of my presence and wheels around with both Burns and Lipton before opening fire.

In strafing to avoid their combined weight of shot, I am no longer in a position to throw my batarang at the light source. I turn to CS gas grenades and flash bangs to regain the advantage in this contest. Two of each leave all three on their knees, coughing wildly and grasping in vain for their dropped firearms which I send skittering across the asphalt far from the crowd.

Meanwhile, the remaining gunmen are trying to riddle the boy with as many holes as possible whilst the unarmed section of the crowd begins to flee for the exits. Robin strafes in the same manner I did, but has significantly more firepower concentrated on his position. Despite disabling six of them at range with additional projectiles, the boy is grazed on both his left shoulder and right calf, leaving him an easy target for pot-shots. I throw down all my smoke pellets whilst simultaneously launching all my projectiles as I rapidly close the distance between us. The smoke will protect him for the few seconds I need to reach his location. I take out seven with projectiles alone before engaging in close-quarter combat. Six armed assailants remain before two consecutive spinning side-kicks reduce their number to four. Those four are cut down to two a moment later as I come under one path of fire to sweep both legs before cartwheeling backwards to avoid another shooter's arsenal and then deliver a right-cross that breaks their lower jaw.

The two remaining gunmen, perhaps seeing the futility of staying any longer, try to flee with the lingering spectators. Knowing my projectiles pouches are now empty, I hustle to the boy, snatch a handful of shuriken from his utility belt and hurl them as hard as I possibly can. One sails wide, but the other three embed themselves in the pairs' calves, felling them instantly. I watch the other patrons disappear into the darkness before remembering I neglected to restrain Fischer and his accomplices. By the time I return to the platform, all three have absconded. I clench my jaw in turning back towards the light source over the ring. If I had been just one second faster...

That boy would not have ruined my evening.

I return to the centre of the ring and check the combatants Robin disabled. One has suffered a broken jaw while the other likely has a concussion and fractured ribs. At this juncture, I cannot determine whether their injuries are a result of their fight or Damian's unwanted intervention. I then focus all my attentions on the boy who is sat-up on the floor, clutching his wounded shoulder and looking thoroughly miserable.

"Can you walk?" I ask, restraining my anger as best I am able to.

"Not at present." He replies.

"I see. Then you should have no problem staying there whilst I go above ground to radio for emergency services." I say walking past him and out of the ring. I gather all firearms together and individually remove the firing pin from each to prevent further use. Then I return to the lobby of the building and contact the relevant agencies to both deal with the criminals and forensically process the scene for evidence to convict Fischer and those affiliated with the fight club. Once those departments are en route, I make my way back to the boy.

"Batman, I..." Robin begins when I approach him.

I hold up a hand. "Do not speak. We will talk once back at the cave."

I drive us home in silence twenty minutes later. Once back in the cave, I carry him up to the medical bay. Since Alfred is absent, I am forced to treat and dress his injuries. I reluctantly snap on surgical gloves and get to work.

"Can I say something now?" Damian asks as he lies stripped to his underwear on the table.

I have cleaned both wounds and am now beginning to suture them shut. "If you must." I say, pushing the needle through his skin. They are not severe, barely more than skin deep, but they are long. The one on his calf is almost three inches across.

"I know I said I would return at the weekend, but I concluded work with the Titans ahead of schedule. I thought it would be beneficial to make my services available to you in Gotham. I did not inform you of this because...I wanted to surprise you." He explains.

I stop suturing and lean over him. "You thought I was behind schedule? You honestly believed I had yet to arrive at that parking complex?" My face expresses all the anger and indignation my voice does not. "If I were behind schedule, you would be dead right now. You do realise that, don't you, Boy?"

I witness his jaw clench. I only ever address him as 'Boy' when he has disappointed me so thoroughly he does not deserve his usual title of 'Son'. He immediately knows I am angrier with him than I have been in months. This is reflected in the tentative nature of his reply. "I...I do realise that, Father. I would be an idiot not to acknowledge my strategy was somewhat rash..."

"Do not call what you did a 'strategy', Boy. I had a strategy. You had nothing. You had not even read the case file. If you had, you would have known they would be armed and willing to exercise deadly force to protect themselves. You have already died once as a result of your own overconfidence. You will not be granted a second chance." I snap at him before continuing to suture.

"I'm sorry, Father." He says after we have been mired in silence for almost five minutes.

"I don't believe you." I respond having graduated to suturing his calf. I hear him swallow hard and sigh. "Why did you not simply stay with the Titans for another few days if you had completed your assignment?"

"I assumed I would be of greater use in Gotham. Clearly I was...in error." He says before sighing again. "Am I grounded?"

"What possible use would grounding you serve? You do not listen to Alfred or myself anyway." I say as I complete the suturing required in record time. "Disobedience is one thing. Stupidity is something I doubt grounding you could cure." I add whilst picking him up from the table.

I carry him up to his room without a single word of conversation. I put him under the covers as he is before leaving him to convalesce. Thanks to his impatience, I still have work to do. Reviewing the suit's camera footage from the night helps yield positive identifications for almost seventy-five percent of those individuals present at that blood sport. Tomorrow I will deliver it to Jim to pursue further. Fischer will turn on his comrades. He is weak-willed. Their indictment is inevitable. Things would have been far smoother however if I had been permitted to act alone. The boy's intervention will leave a bitter taste in my mouth for days to come. I finish shortly after midnight and retire to bed.

My mood has not greatly improved when I awake mid-morning. I am still displeased with him. His explanation of why he elected to jump head-first into such a lethal situation is especially lacking. I do not check on him in making my way downstairs. I was right not to bother. The boy is in the kitchen, eating at the breakfast island. He is sporting one of his lesser-used tank tops and cotton shorts that stop above the knee. Both suture sites appear clean of infection or tearing as I pour myself a cup of black coffee. I did not make this coffee, he did in an effort to appease me.

I quickly concoct a ten egg-white omelette, my usual bowl of porridge oats and whey protein and then sit opposite him at the island. He does not look at me. He concentrates only on his own omelette and porridge. If he is ashamed, it is standard practice for him to look anywhere but at my face. Judging by his aversion this morning, he is suitably ashamed. I sip my coffee. It's good, better than I had expected from him, considering he does not drink coffee.

"Have you taken your antibiotics?" I inquire whilst eating a mouthful of my omelette. It is bland in comparison to the old man's version, but will suffice.

"Yes, Father." He says in a voice laced with misery.

"Good." I tell him before taking another bite. We lapse back into silence.

"What can I do to make things right, Father?" He asks earnestly once I am in the process of moving my empty crockery to the dishwasher some eight minutes later.

"You can begin by apologising like you mean it." I tell him placing my things on the top shelf, closing the door and then keeping my back to him. He knows what I expect with a statement like that. I hear his chair pull back and his bare feet pad over to me. I wait as he takes an audibly deep breath.

"I'm sorry I was an idiot last night and nearly forced you into burying me for a second time. I should have informed you of my presence in the city before I entered the complex and decided not to follow any coherent plan or strategy in combatting the threat. I was rash, and stupid, and careless. I deserve to be in pain and to be embarrassed of myself and my conduct. I'm truly sorry, Father." He says with a sincerity and eloquence that was always lost on the other boys who received this treatment. It is a good apology, but it is not enough, not yet.

He knows there is one phrase he must utter to earn back some of my respect. The other boys were not subjected to this final hurdle where verbal apologies were concerned. They did not require a lesson in humility and humiliation. Damian always does when things of this nature arise. It is the best method to ensure he is truly repentant. I still have my back to him. He sighs in deflation.

"I love you, Daddy." He says in a pained voice.

I allow myself a small smile. Better. I turn around and meet his gaze. "A good start. Next thing you can do is wash-up your breakfast things by hand." I say before pressing the start button on the dishwasher. "Then meet me in my father's study. I have a task for you."

It is an hour later. Fischer is in custody. He was apprehended whilst trying to flee to South America in a private plane. Despite only being arrested thirty minutes ago, the media is already reporting both his main accomplices, Burns and Lipton, are also being arrested. As I thought, the man is a weasel. He gave them up immediately, and two dozen others employed in the organisation of the club and its satellite sites around the city. Their names and photographs flash across the bottom of the screen as the level of the fight club's depravity is exposed for all to see. Thankfully the boy's error has not affected the outcome too much.

When I return to my father's study to check on his progress, I find it lacking. He is doing a terrible job of polishing the silverware, even with all the necessary materials. I pick up one of the forks.

"This one is cloudy." I say before setting it down and picking up another. "This one is marked in two places." I repeat this process five times in succession before looking him in the eye. "I thought you would have mastered this skill, given how many times you have been punished with this very activity."

"The cleaning fluid is making me nauseous, Father." He complains.

I regard the open curtains and windows behind him. "Then you are using too much...again."

"Perhaps a larger room might..."

"You are in this room specifically because it makes you uncomfortable. It is part of your punishment. However," I say gesturing for him to exit into the corridor, "you may take a five minute break whilst the fumes clear the space."

We wander out into the hallway together, keeping the door closed. "What am I to do once the silver is polished, Father? Clean the gutters?" He asks sarcastically.

"Maintain this attitude and I will make you clean the chimney flume and the gutters, Boy." I respond to remind him I have yet to lift my sanctions.

He swallows hard. "Don't call me that again."

"If you are going to lose your temper over being labelled as what you are, I cannot guarantee I will keep my temper either." I say turning to look at him. "Whose temper do you suppose will win in such a scenario?"

He emits a deep sigh. "Yours."

"I will return in an hour. I expect all of it to be sparkling. If it is not, I will make you scrape all the roof tiles on the west-side of the house."

It is three hours later. Damian's polishing proved effective in the end. The roof tiles remain in-scraped for the time-being. Instead the boy is using his time to finish his schoolwork. It was already done and worthy of an A grade before he began, but I feel his analysis of Victor Hugo's works lacked depth and feeling. So I made him re-write his essays with a greater emphasis on personality rather than cold facts. Some might think me soft for meting out such a mediocre punishment, considering his actions, but those people do not know Damian. Admitting anything beyond his intellect is a chore and a humiliation. Trying to showcase his personality in written form, without sounding arrogant or abrasive, is something he finds almost impossible. This is a boy who could disarm a nuclear warhead when he was six and had finished the equivalent high-school curriculum at nine. But written work pitched at thirteen year olds appears to be beyond his skillset.

I bring him lunch, the salmon and broccoli bake Alfred was kind enough to freeze before his departure, and examine his newly penned prose.

I personally thought the novel was...

I frown. The sentence is unfinished. The rest of the page is blank. He has had two hours to find an ending.

"Explain yourself." I say, regarding him in disappointment. He does not meet my gaze in responding.

"I have no personal feelings on the novel worth transcribing into words, Father." He tells me forlornly whilst looking at his feet.

I put the paper down in front of him. "Because you find it uninteresting and archaic?" I check. He nods. "That's fine. I do not want a glowing recommendation. I want your innermost thoughts on the subject matter. If you find dull, badly-written, poorly paced, say so. Your teachers will not read these revised efforts. They are purely for my eyes alone."

"Why do you want me to lambast a literary giant?" He asks picking at his food with the spoon I provided.

"Because I want to get to know you better. You are increasingly aloof these days. It makes our relationship difficult to maintain in the manner I have become accustomed to."

He shrugs. "I could just tell you what I think."

"No. I like it when you organise your thoughts on paper. And I know you hate it. So, you either write me an essay or prepare to deliver an oral report in front of both the Titans and the JLA. Which would you prefer?"

He looks up and smiles at me. "You know me better than you think, Father."

I gift him a smile in return. "Perhaps I do. Just do your best, Son."

His eyes noticeably light up at this switch from Boy to Son. He knows the significance. He has earned back the title he covets above all others. He nods. "Yes, Father."

It is shortly after seven in the evening. Damian's essays, though disparaging in tone and content, do at least show genuine insight into his mind. I deem them good enough. An audience is no longer required. When I do need an audience however, I will make him recite poetry instead of his essays. It will be more chastising. Currently we are both in the living room and, far more surprisingly, sat on the same sofa watching a film together. For dinner, we enjoyed steak and green vegetables. It was not difficult to make, thankfully. The film is one of Clint Eastwood's spaghetti westerns, A Few Dollars More. Damian selected it, presumably to appease me further. I consider myself appeased.

"I'm sorry I intimated you were old last night, Father." The boy says without looking at me.

"I am old, Son, but I am not old enough to require unsolicited assistance from my teenaged son where such matters are concerned."

"Because you're Batman?"

"Because I am your father. When I am over seventy-five, perhaps then we may discuss my age. However, since I am only forty-three, we will postpone the matter."

"I suppose bringing your son back from the dead is fairly impressive for a forty-year-old." He smirks, folding his arms and slouching back against the cushions. We exchange glances.

"I would've thought the feat impressive at any age, Damian."

"It was a joke, Father. Would you like to hear another?" He says with a wicked smile. I raise an eyebrow and incline my head for him to proceed. "I love you, Daddy."

I smile at his bare-faced cheek. "That's a good one, Son."

"I know." He says before letting his head fall against my shoulder. "I do love you though, Father." He adds honestly. "I'm sorry I'm such a pain."

"Do I even need to say how much I love you in return, or are my exploits on Apokolips sufficient?" I inquire, moving my arm so his head can drop onto my chest.

"I prefer being here to inside a sarcophagus." He tells me.

I ruffle his hair. "Even though I make you do such barbaric things such as polish silverware and write personal essays?"

He smirks. "I already know what hell has in store for me, that's for certain. But as long as there is a purpose to such torture, I still prefer living under your roof as opposed to being dead underground."

I firm up my grip on his shoulder as I relive a particular vivid memory of holding his still-warm corpse in the aftermath of the Heretic's fatal attack. "Even though you are a pain, I am always proud you are my son. Just try to be a less stupid genius from now on. Anything to do with my city, run it by me. Anything with Jon or the Titans, run it by them. Whatever you do, ask a second opinion. Regardless of how you feel, advice is always less painful than bullet wounds. Understand?"

He reacts by sinking his head further into my chest and sighing. "Yes, Daddy."