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At some point in the tenure of every Robin and/or other assorted vigilante that lived within the grandiose walls of Wayne Manor, Bruce had found himself on the receiving end of their wrath over a matter he hadn’t expected.
Oh, there were plenty of matters he did expect to catch flack for. His no-kill rule was at the top of that list.
Still, even when his first and second sons had both come to him demanding an explanation, he had written it off as a coincidence.
But three times was a pattern. By his third son, Bruce had reluctantly placed the issue in question at the second place on the list.
Dick had found out at the age of nine, when he’d woken from a nightmare. Instead of running to Bruce, like he normally would, his panicked instinct was to go to Alfred. He had thrown open every door in the family wing, searching for his grandpa’s, only realizing then that Bruce hadn’t told him where Alfred’s room was when he’d given him the tour less than a year earlier. Coming up empty-handed, his fright had given way to pure anger, and he’d kicked Bruce’s door open in the middle of the night to demand he answer for his sins.
Jason found out a few months into his stay at the manor. While Alfred would normally be the last to sleep, waiting up in the cave until his family returned home and straightening up while they dragged their bruised and battered bodies into the beds he so carefully made, Jason had had the night off patrol and was unable to sleep. He’d ended up in the kitchen late and insisted on helping Alfred clean up before going to his room. When Alfred didn’t return to the family wing with him, Bruce had gotten an even louder earful than the first time.
Tim took a little longer to notice, as he didn’t reside in the manor for a while, even during his time as Robin. When he did finally move in officially, he had quickly picked up on the absence of a certain butler’s name when Bruce explained whose room was whose. Still uncertain of his own place in Bruce’s life and home, he hadn’t yelled like Dick and Jason had, but he’d cut Bruce seething glares masked with professional courtesy for the next several days, referring to him only as “Mr. Wayne” until Bruce realized his mistake and explained the situation.
Stephanie never technically “lived” in the manor, as she was never one of Bruce’s wards, though she most certainly had her own room that she took advantage of quite often. She found out simply by being nosy. When every other room in the family wing had been ruled out by virtue of her snooping (or socializing, as she preferred to call it), she threatened to “fry Bruce like a chicken nugget” on Instagram. She only yielded when Bruce insisted that Alfred would hate the publicity.
No one was quite sure when Cassandra found out. But after a villain had decided to target Alfred (and gotten a chestful of lead for his troubles) (“No, Master Bruce, I will not be criticized by you, as I am an old man and not a vigilante”), he had woken every morning for a week after to find her keeping vigil outside his door. Only after assuring her that he was completely safe within the walls of the manor and that she would be the first to know if anything happened to him did she agree to stop. She didn’t yell at Bruce either, but he did find a note on the desk in his (locked) office that read “Do better” with a frowny face. Alfred took over explaining to her, and a few days later, Bruce received another note that read “You’re excused” with the neutral face of displeasure.
So when Damian kicked the door to Bruce’s office hard enough to slam it into the wall, Bruce had already prepared the script. His youngest stormed up to the desk, slamming his tiny palms atop the mahogany surface. “Father!” he snarled, all four feet eleven inches of righteous fury. “I demand to know why Pennyworth does not have a room in the family wing!”
“Damian—” Bruce began calmly.
“He is every bit as much a part of this family as any of us!”
“I know, son—”
“Do you consider him other simply because you pay him? You pay Drake, but we still kept him!”
“Damian, please—”
“I will not let this grievous insult go unanswered!”
“Damian!” Bruce raised his voice reluctantly. “Sit down.”
Damian sat in the chair across from him, though he crossed his arms and glared fiercely. The look might have been more intimidating had his legs been long enough for his feet to reach the floor, but considering his kill count was the third-highest in the family, Bruce refrained from laughing. “What have you to say for yourself?” Damian demanded.
Bruce took a fortifying breath. “Damian Wayne. I love you, and I’m thrilled to death that you love Alfred as much as I do. He is a part of this family, and I would never do anything to suggest he wasn’t. Alfred doesn’t have a room in the family wing simply because he didn’t want one. End of story. It was his decision. I’ve offered several times. I keep one room empty for him just in case he changes his mind. Does that answer your question?”
“Hardly!” Damian’s expression had shifted from enraged aggression to a sort of indignant bafflement. “If Pennyworth is a part of this family, then I am left to assume that you failed to inform him of this, hence his refusal!”
Bruce gave a sharp huff that passed as his excuse for laughter. “Alfred is well aware of how we all feel about him. Honey, I promise you, every single one of your siblings has come to me with the same complaint.”
“Then—” His face grew crestfallen. “Then does he not return our sentiments? Have we overstepped his boundaries?”
“His— what? No, why would you think that?” Bruce rose and knelt next to his son.
“Richard has informed me that I can sometimes be… insensitive of others’ feelings. That I tend to cross people’s boundaries when it comes to matters of emotions or personal space. I am working to do better. Have I offended Pennyworth?”
“No!” Bruce put an arm around Damian’s shoulder, waiting until his son leaned into him to pull him into a full hug. “No, you didn’t, I promise. Alfred thinks of us as his family, too.” He smiled. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go ask Alfred yourself?”
“Ask him?” Damian’s brows shot up in alarm. “I could not—What would I even—”
Bruce ran a hand through Damian’s short hair. “Ask him how he feels about us. And about his room. I promise you, he’ll be happy to explain.”
Damian hummed noncommittally, but when Bruce pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, he didn’t stab him. That was enough confirmation that he was at least considering it.
~~~
Damian took a deep breath, centering his emotions before knocking on the heavy wooden door in front of him. He straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms behind his back, taking a step back from the door as he waited.
Pennyworth opened the door, and if he were surprised to see Damian there, it didn’t show on his face at all. “Master Damian. Is everything quite alright?”
Damian froze. His emotions quickly came uncentered, and he clenched his fists tightly so his nails dug into his palms. He had held himself together this far, convincing himself that speaking to Pennyworth was the very least he owed his grandfather; but now, faced with the moment that would confirm or deny his conceived notions of family, he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Pennyworth merely smiled, that warm, grandfatherly smile that Damian could only ever associate with him. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Hardly before he knew what was happening, Damian found himself in Pennyworth’s room, sitting in a worn but comfortable leather armchair with a quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Pennyworth bustled about a small kitchenette area, where a kettle was already steaming. “Passionflower or chamomile? It’s getting rather late, and a nice cup of tea might help.”
“Passionflower,” Damian answered. Pennyworth put on the tea and sat across from Damian, giving a soft hum and another smile.
“I…” Damian coughed, less to clear his throat and more to loosen his words. “I apologize to disturb you at this late hour.”
“Not at all, my dear boy,” Pennyworth answered fondly. “I daresay your visit was welcome—and expected.”
“Expected?”
“All of your siblings have found their way here one time or another and sat in that very chair. I presume you’re here about the conversation you had with your father earlier today?”
“He told you?” Damian’s cheeks flamed.
“Not at all. But you’ll find nothing happens in this manor without my knowing.” His smile grew wider but no less warm. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
The words that had been so reluctant to come earlier now flooded free. “I do not understand! We have insulted you dreadfully, but I cannot tell in which way! I had assumed that our mistake lay in not giving you a room in the family wing of the manor, but now I fear I have overstepped and assigned to you a role that you didn’t wish to fill. Do you consider yourself to be a part of our family or not? Have we insulted you by not allowing you to be near us, or have we been too familiar with you against your wishes?”
Pennyworth laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. “If I understand correctly, you are upset with Master Bruce over the fact that I do not have a room in the family wing, and now that he’s explained that it was my decision, you worry that I don’t wish to be your grandfather and I’m attempting to distance myself to keep up a veneer of formality. Is that correct?”
Damian nodded weakly.
Pennyworth looked around the room. It was every bit him, from the perfectly straightened covers on the large bed to the neat tea service laid out on the kitchenette counter. The décor was all warm wood and soft rugs. Though they remained hidden to the eye, Damian had no doubt the room also contained a concealed entrance to the Batcave and a variety of weapons that Bruce would dispose of if he could ever find them. The area next to the fireplace held a couch and two armchairs, done in tasteful black leather. A tapestry covered one wall, with a design that Damian recognized as a favorite back in Nanda Parbat. Bruce must have brought that back for him.
Most telling, however, was the picture over the mantle, in a place of honor. It was a family portrait. Bruce, Richard, Todd, Drake, Cassandra, Damian himself— and even Brown and Gordon had managed to find their way into it. Damian remembered the event well. Pennyworth had taken the picture, and Damian had attempted to get out of it at every turn. His expression was, frankly, miserable. He hadn’t known what Pennyworth intended the picture for.
If he had known, he wouldn’t have protested so vehemently.
Pennyworth had framed a family picture. He’d gotten it printed to the size of one of the portraits that lined the manor walls and had it placed in a gilded frame to hang over his fireplace.
“Do you know why I chose this room?” Pennyworth asked softly.
“No.”
“It was the room my father had when he worked for Thomas and Martha Wayne. I chose this room because his presence fills it so completely. You won’t feel it, of course; he was gone long before you were born. But I can tell. This chair where I am sitting is where he used to sit. And the one you’re currently in is where I would sit when I visited him. His presence lingers in this place, in this entire manor, much as mine will. When I am gone, you will see me in every polished banister and strip of decorative moulding.”
Damian straightened up. “Bold of you to assume I will let you die—or remain dead.”
“Hm.” Pennyworth’s mustache twitched. “Then I suppose I shall have to update my medical paperwork to appoint you as my power of attorney.” He stood and crossed to the kitchenette, where the kettle was whistling. Pouring up two mugs, he returned to the hearth.
Damian gratefully took the mug from Pennyworth. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, dear boy.” Pennyworth took his seat again. “You have nothing to fear. I have gained more family than I ever thought was possible. Each member of our family holds a special place in this old man’s heart, and that includes you. I never thought I’d hear these walls ring with music and laughter the way they do now. It would make Thomas and Martha proud, I think, to see it. They would want your father to be happy, and they would love each and every one of you just as much as I do.”
Damian’s eyes stung. He would chalk it up to the steam from his tea. “So we haven’t offended you?”
“Perish the thought, dear child! Whyever would you think such a thing?”
“I wasn’t particularly kind to you when I first came here. I had a lot to learn.”
“Yes, and you have learned it admirably and are still learning.” Pennyworth leaned forward and wrapped one hand around Damian’s nervously-tapping fingers. “Master Damian, I may have chosen this room in order to feel closer to my own father, but that does not minimize what you mean to me. I have been here since it was only myself and Master Bruce in this house, and over the long years, I’ve realized I don’t need to cling to a memory in order to feel loved. Just the fact that you and every one of your brothers and sisters have taken up metaphorical arms to defend me over something like this shows me just how deeply you love me. That’s enough for me. This is all the family I need.”
“Then… if you don’t need this room anymore, why haven’t you moved closer to us? Baba says he offered you a room on multiple occasions.”
Pennyworth leaned back again, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “Well, now. While it would be more practical for me to be closer to everyone in case of any emergency, my reason for remaining here is also practical. I refused at first for sentimental reasons, while it was just Masters Bruce and Dick, and by Master Tim and Miss Cassandra, I had considered moving.” He took a sip of his tea. “I stay here because at any given time, that particular wing is home to upwards of seven part-time vigilantes, several of whom are still teenagers and at least two of which have no concept whatsoever of personal space or belongings. I am an old man, Master Damian, and I highly value my personal space.”
Damian nearly choked on his tea.
“I have an express elevator that takes me to that floor if I need to be there quickly, and I have my own ways of knowing when I need to be there. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m never far away.” He rested his head back against his seat, curling his fingers around the mug. “No, as much as I love to hear the life that this old house has taken on, I think you’ll find this is one of the only quiet spots left. If and when things grow too overwhelming, you are welcome to make this place your refuge, just as your siblings have done from time to time. My door is always open to you, even if I am occupied elsewhere.” He raised a sharp eyebrow. “Provided, of course, that you refrain from telling your father about the, ah… particular set of defensive equipment I keep in here.”
“You have my word, Pennyworth.”
They finished their tea in companionable silence, away from the hustle and bustle that had become daily life at the manor. The once-lonely halls and unused sitting rooms had become a haven of noise and chaos, echoing with movie nights (courtesy of Richard) and karaoke (courtesy of Brown). Case paperwork got left on the coffee tables until Pennyworth insisted on its removal, and a shoe rack by the front door held combat boots, leather loafers, and ballet slippers. And, as he had said, Pennyworth’s touch was everywhere, from the way he organized the pantry to the citrusy scent of the furniture polish he preferred.
And if Damian later found himself at Pennyworth’s door from time to time, eager to escape the annoyances that came with having four siblings and one parasitic houseguest— well, that was no one’s business but his and his grandfather’s.
~~~
When Damian stopped yelling at Bruce, he suspected a certain late-night conversation had occurred. Bruce smiled and leaned on the edge of the doorframe as he gazed into the kitchen, watching Alfred show Damian how to put icing into a piping bag. Damian sat on the counter, swinging his legs back and forth as he watched Alfred’s movements with single-minded focus. In the few days since Room Conversation N°6, Damian had opened up a bit more, accepting Alfred’s offers to learn how to cook (without receiving the lifetime kitchen ban that half the family had) and having tea on the back patio.
Bruce ducked out of the kitchen just in time to catch Dick in the act of attempting to sneak past him. “Did you have to tell him?”
Dick flinched. “Tell him what?” he asked, a too-innocent smile on his face.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
With a helpless shrug, Dick answered, “He had to learn eventually. I just… gave him a little nudge.”
“You couldn’t have warned me in advance?”
“And spoil the fun?” He grinned impishly. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know next time.”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” Bruce grumbled.
~~~
A few months later, Duke Thomas moved into Wayne manor. He settled into their family quickly, and even Damian didn’t protest his arrival. The assorted Waynes, legal or otherwise, took to him immediately, roping him into all sorts of shenanigans that Bruce pretended to ignore.
A few months after that, a knock sounded on Bruce’s office door. Duke walked in, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he stood on the other side of the desk in his most formal outfit. “I think we need to have a talk.”
Bruce sighed and nodded, gesturing to the chair and steeling himself for Room Conversation N°7.