Bruce came back from work exhausted. Patrol, detective work – it all took a toll on him, and the only thing he wanted to do was go home and sleep (though, realistically, he probably wouldn’t do that anyway). He took off his shoes, his jacket, and as he was heading toward his office, something nudged him to check on what his kids were up to.

Dick, the oldest, was on the phone with Kori, walking around the whole house, excitedly telling her about a puppy he’d seen that day. Damian was reading a book, tending to a newly found cat that was curled up on his lap. Tim—surprisingly—was asleep? And Jason? Jason’s room was quiet. Too quiet. That meant trouble.

Of course, respecting his kids' privacy, he knocked first. But no one answered. So he went in—and had to blink a few times at what he saw. His son was lying in bed, shirtless. Next to him was a girl Bruce didn’t recognize at all. They were kissing. That was already enough to see, but then he noticed they were both only half-covered by the blanket. Were they…?

He cleared his throat, leaning against the doorframe. Alfred, who happened to be passing by in the hallway, smiled faintly to himself. He’d once caught Bruce in a similar situation. History had a funny way of repeating itself.

At the sound of his voice, you pulled away from Jason, thinking Dick had come to mess with you again. But it wasn’t Dick. It was freaking Bruce Wayne. Fuck.

“Jason, please tell me that’s not your dad,” you muttered, hiding your face in your hands. Maybe he hadn’t memorized your face yet and wouldn’t send a swarm of bats after you?

Jason just sighed quietly and flopped back onto the bed in defeat. “Yup,” he mumbled, looking at his father. "That’s my dad.”