“What if my brain isn’t rotted, but fermenting? Milk to yogurt. Tea to kombucha.”

Bruce could only let out a pained groan at the word salad that just came out of his kid’s mouth, followed by the incredulous snorts and laughs of disbelief from his other children. He never wants to admit it, considering that one’s mindset is much more powerful than the average person thinks it is. But he feels old, geriatric even. Especially when he hears the remarks and inside jokes of the generations that have come after his own.

“Can we please focus on the case at hand?” he grumbled, directing his fiercest glare to his brood of unruly bats. They claim they’re all so-called adults yet still act like juvenile delinquents at any opportunity — Patrol. The Batcave. Hell, even galas. There are only so many instances of Dick swinging on chandeliers left inside of Bruce that he can mildly tolerate.

“Okay, pack it up. The Sigma has spoken! Back to the matters of the Rizzler.” That was the unfortunate response he got. Before said brood of unruly bats went back to work with a quiet fit of giggles. He felt an eye twitch and the precursors of a sudden onset stress migraine. And to think that Bruce once claimed that he was going to start worrying more about his liver health as a New Year’s resolution.

It’s a good thing that his last pillar of all things blessed and holy came to his rescue, Alfred already walking dutifully towards him with a bottle of pain meds set on a silver platter. Thank God. Bruce swallowed a couple of the pills dry without any hesitation, a practice he’s gotten the displeasure of honing throughout the years.

He tries his damndest to be a good father, but some days are more trying for his patience than others.