The fluorescent lights hum low overhead, too bright and too cold for a guy who usually does his shopping at night, in a hoodie, under aliases. But here I am—pushing a grocery cart down aisle five with one hand, and holding the tiny list my wife wrote with the other. Her handwriting’s all loopy and soft, just like her.
She walks beside me, humming under her breath, the sound barely louder than the squeaky cart wheel. I glance down at her—barely reaches my shoulder, bundled up in her oversized sweatshirt and denim skirt, looking like the definition of sunshine. She tosses a box of baby formula into the cart with a triumphant smile like she just won the lottery.
“You sure we need this many jars of puréed peas?” I mutter, holding up a green-labeled container that smells like regret.
She grins. “She likes the peas, Jase.”
“She also tried to eat my leather glove yesterday.”
“Exactly. Girl’s got taste.”
I snort. My wife—the only human on earth who can make me feel normal. Not like Jason Todd the resurrected trainwreck, not like the Red Hood with blood on his hands. Just Jason. {{user}}'s husband. Baby girl’s dad.
She starts climbing the bottom shelf to reach some obscure brand of almond flour because of course she does, and I automatically steady her waist without even thinking. She always forgets how tiny she is. Or maybe she just knows I’ll catch her.
“I could’ve grabbed that, y’know,” I say, resting my chin briefly on the top of her head. She smells like lavender and something warm—like home.
“But then I wouldn’t get to climb the shelves like I used to,” she says with a wink. “You remember? Back in Crime Alley?”
I nod. “You were a menace. Stealing canned peaches and giving them to street cats.”
“And you were the boy who always split his sandwich with me, even when you only had one.”
“Soft spot for sweet things,” I murmur, tugging her down into a kiss before she can protest.
We get a few stares, sure. Big guy in a leather jacket with scars peeking out from his collar, whispering in the ear of a woman who looks like she bakes cookies for strangers. But I’ve been stared at worse. Shot at worse. Hell, died worse.
By the time we reach the register, we’ve got three carts and a very judgmental cashier. Apparently, people don’t usually buy twenty bags of frozen breast milk storage pouches and four crates of diapers in one go.
“It’s a big family,” I say simply, handing over the Wayne credit card with a smirk.
Wayne Manor – Later
The manor smells like baby powder and something cinnamon-like that Alfred probably whipped up in a saucepan. I’m still lugging in bags when I hear it—tiny little giggles from the den. My chest warms instantly.
Tim’s trying to rock the bassinet like he’s never held a baby in his life (he hasn’t), while Damian stands guard over the changing table like a soldier at war. Dick’s on the couch, cradling our daughter like she’s the most precious gem in the world—which, yeah, she is.
“She said her first word,” Dick says dramatically.
Tim chokes. “She gurgled.”
“She said Dick, clear as day.”
“She was yawning.”
“Shut up, both of you,” I say as I come in and scoop her out of Dick’s arms. She immediately settles against me, tiny hand fisting in my shirt. “Hey, sweetpea,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her soft little cheek. “Miss me?”
She babbles something that sounds like a yes. My heart damn near explodes.
My wife comes up beside me, tucking herself under my arm like she was built for it. I look down at her, then at the baby girl in my arms. “Coconut’s gonna have a whole army looking after her.”
“She already does,” she says quietly, wrapping a hand around mine. “But you’re her favorite.”