As the days bled into weeks, a new life took root in Wayne Manor. Bruce’s physical injuries began to heal, a slow but steady process that forced him to a pace he was unaccustomed to. His recovery was mending his emotional wounds as much as his broken ribs and punctured lung. He spent his time above ground, foregoing the shadows of the Batcave for the warmth of his new, unconventional family. He and Hailey settled into a new, quiet rhythm, a comfortable closeness born of their shared trauma and newfound love.

Richie, now nearly seven years old, was the ever-present force of light in the house. Bruce knew Richie was far from an average child; at his age, he was already reading at the level of a high school senior. But Bruce, in a quiet act of defiance against the world that had stolen Richie’s childhood, insisted he stay in the same grade with kids his own age. He wanted the boy to have a childhood, a chance to be a child, not a prodigy rushed into adulthood.

He’d spent countless hours in the Batcave, poring over every detail of the Grayson family’s life—their family history, vacations, employment records, and countless photographs. Bruce had committed every fact to memory, a habit of a detective and a new guardian seeking to understand the child he had taken in. In those photos, he saw a stark and beautiful truth: Richie was the spitting image of his father, John. The same curious eyes, the same shy, but easy, smile.

One sun-drenched afternoon, Bruce walked into the sprawling manor gardens, where he found Richie with a small, worn field guide in his hands. Hailey was nearby, sketching in a notepad, a content smile on her face. As Bruce approached, Richie pointed at him with a look of pure, innocent discovery.

“Dr. Hailey!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with triumph and pointing directly at Bruce. “Look! That… is a bat.”

Hailey’s head snapped up, a laugh bubbling up in her throat as she caught Bruce’s eye. He managed a faint smile, a hint of genuine amusement touching his face before he looked back at Richie.

“There! Over there!” Richie exclaimed again, his voice ringing with triumph as he pointed to a nearby oak tree. “That’s a Tufted Titmouse! See his little crest?”

Bruce, a man who could identify a dozen different types of explosives by smell, found himself utterly charmed. He looked from the small, gray bird to Richie’s beaming face, a genuine smile spreading across his lips.

As they walked, Richie pointed out every bird he could find, rattling off their names as if they were old friends. A Northern Cardinal flashed red against the green leaves; a Blue Jay called a raucous cry in the afternoon air.

The garden, once a beautiful but silent space to Bruce, was now a vibrant, chattering sanctuary.

Then, a robin hopped along the grass nearby, its head cocked to one side as it searched for a worm. Richie’s eyes, wide and full of awe, locked onto the small bird. He slowly lowered himself to the grass, extending his hand, palm up, with a quiet reverence. The robin, unafraid and curious, hopped closer, then with a small flutter of its wings, landed softly in his hand.

Richie held it there for a moment, a look of pure wonder on his face, before gently letting it go. As the robin flew away, Richie looked up at Bruce, his voice soft with reverence. “Robins are my mommy’s favorite,” he whispered, the sound a soft breeze in the quiet garden.

Bruce looked at the tiny, fleeting sight of the robin, then at Richie’s face, a mirror image of his late father. In that instant, the memory of the Grayson family’s simple joy and love felt real and present. A sense of peace, a quiet contentment, settled over him.

***

Once Richie was tucked in, the manor would fall silent. This peaceful quiet was a stark contrast to the chaotic hum of the city beyond the gates. The silence was their cue. Bruce and Hailey would descend into the Batcave, the elevator’s slow journey a transition from their quiet domestic life to the rigorous world of crime-fighting. All the while, the Justice League, in a silent agreement of shared duty, took care of Gotham, their presence a temporary reassurance that the city was not left to the wolves.

Bruce, still healing, couldn’t throw himself back into the thick of it, but he could train. Hailey, his new protégé, was a unique challenge. He didn’t try to mold her into a methodical, disciplined fighter like himself. Instead, he worked with her existing strengths: chaos, unpredictability, and dangerous cleverness. He refined that chaos, teaching her to turn a spin into a take-down and her razor-sharp wit into her greatest weapon.

Weeks passed in this manner. Bruce, a silent and demanding taskmaster, watched from the sidelines, his voice a low growl of instruction and correction. Then, a day came when Bruce could no longer simply watch. His injuries had healed enough, the pain a dull ache rather than a searing fire. One evening, after Hailey had executed a particularly flawless take-down move, he stood up from his ringside chair.

“Now… you train with me,” he said, his voice firm.

Their sparring was a spectacle of contrasts. His movements were calculated, powerful, and deliberate. Hers were a whirlwind of unpredictable energy, a flurry of kicks and punches that sought to exploit any opening.

He pushed her, not as a teacher, but as a partner, a measure of her strength and his own. As his body regained its strength, their sessions grew more intense, their movements a synchronized dance.

The air in the training ring was thick with the scent of sweat and leather. They moved around each other, a dark-haired whirlwind against a stoic shadow, until Bruce landed a particularly sharp jab to her side.

Hailey stumbled, her hand clutching her ribs, a soft gasp escaping her lips. She collapsed to the mat with a theatrical groan, her body curled into a ball. “You got me,” she mumbled, her voice laced with feigned pain.

Bruce, his guard dropping instantly, knelt beside her, his hand reaching out to check her injury. “Hailey? Are you okay?”

It was all the opening she needed. In a flash of movement, her body uncoiled. She grappled him with surprising efficiency, flipping him onto his back and pinning him to the mat with her knees on his chest. She leaned down, a triumphant smile on her lips, and kissed him hard.

“Never… underestimate your opponent. Remember?” she whispered, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Bruce’s laughter rumbled in his chest, a deep, genuine sound she hadn’t heard often enough. “Gotcha!” he said, his voice playful.

Hailey’s triumphant smile faltered as she felt a strange tug on her left wrist. Bruce, using a subtle, trained movement she hadn’t felt beneath his playful embrace, had managed to handcuff her left wrist to the lower rope of their sparring ring. She looked down in disbelief, her mind racing to process how he had done it.

He kissed her back, a long, slow kiss that was both a surrender and a victory. When he pulled away, he winked, and let out a playful chuckle as he watched her struggle against the cuffs. “You’re too easy.”

Hailey tugged her shackled wrist, a playful pout on her lips, and slapped his chest. “I am not.”

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.