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2021-01-15
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ergonomics

Summary:

Bruce spent a lot to get his bed. He’d like the chance to actually sleep in it.

Notes:

This is remix of alaskan king, inspired by the thought: what if Bruce's kids completely took over his bed?

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

 

Along with all the equipment for the Cave, Bruce ordered several things to augment his daily routine.  Bath salts.  Scentless soaps.  Varieties of herbal teas.

 

And a wonderful, expensive, extremely comfortable bed to sleep on.

 

Bruce had done his homework—if he was going to sustain this lifestyle, if he was going to go out every other night and fight crime, he was going to have the perfect bed waiting for him.  He was going to make sure that he would be able to get sleep and not aggravate his back or old injuries or bruises, so that the Dark Knight would never be hampered by something like a crick in his neck from sleeping wrong.

 

It had absolutely nothing to do with the years of sleeping on hard mattresses and cold stone floors.  Absolutely nothing.

 

The bed was perfect.  He’d get home, sink into it, and wake up the next morning, refreshed and rejuvenated.  It was magical.

 

And then he got a kid.

 

 

Nine-year-old Dick Grayson was an unstoppable, relentless ball of energy.  While awake.  While on patrol.  And, unfortunately, while sleeping.

 

Bruce knew Dick had nightmares.  And the first time Dick had shown up at his door, shuffling, tear-stained eyes, gripping his pillow tightly, Bruce was going to send him away.

 

His bed.

 

His sleep, that Dick had so rudely woken him up from.

 

And then Dick had raised those wet, shining blue eyes and Bruce had folded like a bad hand.  The kid was a trained manipulator, and half-asleep, Bruce was no match for those puppy-dog eyes.

 

“Come here,” Bruce beckoned with a sigh, lifting the covers.  Dick took a startled step, and then burst forward, doing a handspring and diving into Bruce’s bed, pointy feet first.

 

“Thanks, Bruce!” the kid chirped, flopping onto his stomach—half on top of the sheets, one leg resting on the headboard, his head buried in his pillow.

 

Bruce massaged his ribs and tried to remember how to breathe.

 

 

Dick was a morning person, too.

 

Bruce stared at his cup of coffee, his eyes dry and sticky, and grimly debated the merits of dumping the bowl of cereal on Dick’s head.

 

 

As Dick grew older, he spent less and less time creeping into Bruce’s bed.

 

He spent less and less time in the Manor.

 

Bruce was not concerned about this.  Not at all.  Nope.  He was happy to get his bed back.  That was what he was.  Happy and pleased.

 

 

Jason would never creep into Bruce’s bed after a nightmare.  The kid flinched if Bruce moved too fast, and avoided Bruce’s bedroom like there was a monster sleeping inside. 

 

Bruce was maybe slightly upset that Jason didn’t trust him, but at least he wasn’t woken up at ungodly hours by shuffling feet.

 

And then he dragged himself up to his bedroom after a long JLA mission, ready for some rest and quiet, only to discover that it was already occupied.

 

Bruce stared at his second son, sleeping peacefully, curled up in a little blanket cocoon in the middle of the large bed.

 

It was adorable.

 

It was also his bed.

 

Bruce imagined Jason’s reaction if Bruce slipped under the covers next to him, and sighed.  Looked like he was sleeping in a guest room tonight.

 

 

Bruce sat on the bed in the guest room he had intermittently used as his, on and off throughout the years, and watched the tears soak into the white sheets.  He would’ve slept every night in this room if it meant getting his son back.

 

 

Tim was fascinated by Bruce’s bed.  He confessed that he had difficulty falling asleep in his usual bed—personally, Bruce blamed the coffee—and was delighted by the restful sleep he got on Bruce’s bed.

 

Bruce didn’t begrudge him the space.  Really.  Tim didn’t sprawl out in strange, uncomfortable positions, and he didn’t wake Bruce up when he came shuffling in.

 

No, he only woke Bruce up when he was tipped on the edge of the bed, poised to fall off, and some instinct forced Bruce awake in a panic before he spotted Tim and grabbed him.

 

Tim, unfairly, never woke up during this.  He only blinked at Bruce in confusion whenever he brought it up.

 

Bruce tried everything—switching sides, putting Tim firmly in the middle, building a mountain of pillows as a barrier, tucking him into a cuddle—but nothing worked.  He finally dropped it when Tim said, voice quiet, that he could go back to sleeping in his room if he kept waking Bruce up.

 

Bruce assured him that it was no problem, and resigned himself to interrupted sleep.

 

 

Cass was a blanket hog.

 

Bruce never knew when she crept in, but he’d wake up in the middle of the night to rescue Tim from a bloody nose and find himself shivering because all the blankets were wrapped around a head of black hair in the far corner.

 

Bruce dragged Tim back into the center of the bed, and got another blanket.

 

The next time he woke up, his daughter’s blanket pile had grown, and he was cold again.

 

 

Bruce turned up the thermostat in his room, and told Cass to sleep on the other side of Tim whenever she joined them.  Her blanket heap could stop his third son from rolling off the bed.

 

 

Steph slept like an angel.

 

Peaceful.  Quiet.  No pulling at the blankets.  No rolling.  No kicking or sprawling.  Sweet and happy and content.

 

Once she managed to go to sleep.

 

The bedtime stories.  The lullabies.  The hair stroking.  Sometimes Bruce wondered if Steph was fourteen or four.

 

But Tim listened to the stories with rapt attention, and Cass hummed along with the lullabies, eyes closed, and Steph wiggled into her pillow with a soft sigh as he massaged her scalp and Bruce was reminded of how much the world had taken away from his brave children.

 

If the price of their happiness was stories and singing, so be it.

 

 

It settled into a tolerable rhythm.  Bruce and Steph and old stories about Gotham.  Tim and someone always settling on the other side to block him from falling off.  Cass and everyone either remembering to tie their blankets to them, or learning to live without.  Dick and sprawling over the side closest to the door and going to sleep, no matter how many elbows he was jabbing into sensitive flesh.

 

“This bed must’ve been outrageously expensive,” Steph murmured one day as Bruce tugged her hair into a loose braid.

 

“It’s like magic,” Tim concurred, almost purring.

 

“Perfect,” Cass weighed in.

 

“You could’ve outfitted every room in the Manor with a bed like this,” Dick hummed, “Why didn’t you?”

 

Bruce stayed pointedly silent.

 

“Oh, shit, it’s that expensive?” Steph gasped, eyes going wide.  Dick let out a low whistle.  Cass hummed.  “You know, I can say something about capitalism and consumerism, but I have a feeling you’re going to kick me off so, just this once, I’m keeping my mouth shut.”

 

“Your magnanimity is appreciated,” Bruce said dryly, “Now go to sleep.”

 

 

Damian seemed contemptuous of sleeping in the same bed with other people, but he finally admitted that Talia had stopped letting him in her room when he was five—which caused Dick, who’d spent his entire life walking into other people’s beds like he owned them, to nearly start crying—and Bruce could maybe admit that his heart broke a little as he offered the invitation to join them.

 

Damian looked at him like he couldn’t believe it was real.

 

And then Bruce discovered why Talia had stopped letting him sleep with her, because Damian kicked.

 

“He’s worse than Dick,” Tim groaned, holding his jaw.  Cass’s blanket pile had nearly migrated up the headboard, and Steph was doing her best to join it.

 

Bruce growled, and stalked to the guest room.

 

 

Between his plethora of children and their unique ways to get on his last nerve—he loved them, he really did, but it was his bed—the only time he could get some actual sleep was in broad daylight.  A nap in the afternoon did wonders to restore his energy levels and soothe the aches in his bones, and he could manage a good three hours completely uninterrupted while the others were at school, work, or dance practice.

 

Bruce shuffled into his room, ready to collapse on top of his nice, blissful, empty—

 

Not empty bed.

 

Jason still slept in a blanket cocoon.

 

That was nice to know.

 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a heartfelt and soundless groan, and shuffled out of the room in grumbling indignation.

 

After first staring at Jason for a solid five minutes because his quiet, whistling breaths ruffled the white lock of hair drifting into his eyes and he looked so peaceful.

 

 

Bruce emerged from a thoroughly unsatisfying nap, and poked his head back into his bedroom.

 

Dick was sleeping on top of Jason, head pillowed on his stomach and feet sticking into the small blanket mound on the other side.  Surprisingly, everyone was asleep.  Even more surprisingly, Bruce couldn’t detect any trace of blood.

 

Bruce shot an envious look at the bed and stalked to his office.

 

 

Alfred knocked on the door before dinnertime, and informed Bruce that he hadn’t seen any of the children since they’d come home.  Bruce decided to check the bedroom before calling them or jumping into a panic.

 

Tim was in the center, boxed in by Damian on one side, tucked under Jason’s arm, and thoroughly pinned by Dick’s stomach.  Dick’s legs were entangled with Damian’s, negating any sleep-kicking, and Cass’s blanket mound was brushing the tips of Damian’s hair.  Steph was on the other side of Jason, her head tucked under his chin, Dick’s arm across the backs of her knees, one hand outstretched across Tim’s stomach.

 

“They look quite peaceful,” Alfred said, a small smile on his face.

 

They did.

 

It was also his goddamn bed.

 

 

Bruce loved his children.  He really, really did.  He was just having a hard time figuring out why he had so many of them.

 

 

Maybe if he moved his bed?

 

 

Surely they couldn’t get to it in the Watchtower—no, Dick and Tim had access.

 

 

At this rate, Bruce was considering getting a second one, despite how astronomically expensive the first had been.

 

 

It had been a long, long patrol—they’d tangled with Killer Croc, which meant that Bruce was now one big bruise, and he knew from painful, painful experience that if he didn’t sleep in his own, nice, soft, comfortable bed, he would wake up feeling like he was hit with a bus.

 

Unfortunately, all of his children had made it back from patrol before him, so the chances of him getting that were nil.

 

Still, Bruce made his way to his bedroom—hope sprang eternal, even in the Dark Knight—and paused for a deep breath before he opened the door.

 

He waited for a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

 

And then another second.

 

And then he squinted.  And rubbed his eyes.  And turned on the lights to be sure.

 

His bed was empty.

 

It hadn’t been empty in months.  Years, maybe, Bruce couldn’t quite remember anymore.

 

A faint pang of alarm ran through his head, but Bruce was too exhausted to track down his children.  They would be fine.  None of them had been injured, and post-patrol briefing had gone smoothly.

 

…Okay, he might’ve been having a hard time convincing himself.

 

But his bed was right there.  Soft.  Inviting.  Calling to him.

 

He would just sit on it for a second.  Just a second.  Then he’d find his children.  Just one second.  That was all.

 

Just…

 

One…

 

Second…

 

 

Bruce jolted awake in sudden fear—children, where were his children, something had happened—and froze in abrupt confusion when his movement was halted by a soft weight on his chest.

 

Whistling breaths.  Moonlight illuminating a strip of white hair.

 

Bruce stared at Jason, his heart still caught in his throat—and his gaze drifted out, to the blond head nestled against his arm, and the small child trapped under three different sets of limbs, and the blanket heap in the corner, and the slack face at the edge of the bed, and the long leg stretched against the headboard.

 

His heart rate slowly returned to normal.

 

Dream, he thought, a painful ache spreading through him, this has to be a dream.

 

The bed lulled him back to sleep.

 

 

When he woke again, sunlight was streaming through the windows, curtains in the process of being pulled open by a stern face as a gaggle of children groaned in unison.

 

“Nooooo,” Steph moaned, burying her face in Bruce’s shirt, “Too early.”

 

Jason had all but trapped Bruce against the bed, half on top of him as he sprawled out, still fast asleep.

 

“Ow, Dami,” Dick groaned, attempting to extricate Damian’s foot from his gut.

 

“Shhh,” the blanket mound hissed.

 

Tim yawned lazily, apparently unconcerned that only Damian’s fist in his shirt was preventing him from falling off the bed completely.

 

“Alfred,” Bruce said hoarsely, waiting until the older man caught his gaze with a raised eyebrow, “Five more minutes.”

 

“Shhh,” the blanket mound said more vehemently.

 

“I love this bed,” Tim murmured happily, “I’d get married to this bed if I could.”

 

“Anything that makes even the brat get cuddly has to be magic,” Steph mumbled, “It’s so comfortable.  Where did you get it from, Bruce?  I’m willing to steal one at this point.”

 

“That wouldn’t be advisable,” Bruce hummed, indulging his desire to brush a few locks of hair out of Jason’s face.

 

“I’m with Steph,” Dick said, stretching upright with an infuriatingly cheerful expression on his face, “This bed isn’t normal.”  He eyed Jason, who was sleeping in apparent contentment.  “Definitely made of miracles.”

 

Cass seemed to have given up on shushing them, and just pulled the blanket mound tighter.

 

“Seriously, B,” Steph yawned and propped herself up on one elbow, “Where’d you get it?  There’s no way this bed isn’t a little bit magic.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes?  Yes what?”

 

Dick was frowning.  “Wait—Bruce, are you telling us that this bed is magic?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Steph inhaled sharply and Dick’s gaze sharpened.  Tim, half-slipping off the bed, made a sound of victory, “I knew it.”

 

“You bought a magical bed,” Dick said, incredulous, “You, Batman, Mr. No-Metas-in-Gotham, bought a magical bed?”

 

“It was a sound investment,” Bruce said mildly.  It had also cost him an arm and a leg, and he did not mean figuratively.

 

Dick was still gaping at him.  Damian finally realized that he was holding onto Tim, and let go—“Ow,” Tim said, muffled, from the floor.

 

The blanket mound grumbled.  Steph made a considering face, then nodded, “You know what—that sounds typically hypocritical of you.  I’ll buy it.”

 

“You bought a magical bed,” Dick repeated, unwilling to let it go.

 

“Everyone shut up,” Jason grumbled, “I’m trying to sleep.”

 

A dazzling smile slipped across Steph’s face as she crooned, “Aww, are you trying to get in quality snuggle time with Dad, Jay?”  Dick’s incredulity was briefly replaced with snickers, and even Damian made an amused scoff.

 

Jason cracked open one green eye.

 

Quicker than Bruce could track, he’d grabbed Steph, pulling her forward with a squeak, and got a hold of Dick’s T-shirt.  Damian ended up in the crossfire as Jason tugged them all forward, trapping them close.

 

“Yes,” Jason growled, “I am enjoying some peaceful sleep with my dad, my big brother, my little sister, and my little brother.”  Steph was wheezing for breath, Damian’s face was red, and Dick was cursing as he tried to untangle himself.  “Anyone else have any smart comments to make?”

 

The blanket mound wisely uncurled and slipped off the bed.  Tim stumbled upright and giggled, phone out.  Alfred gave them all an unimpressed look, but Bruce could see his lips twitching.

 

Bruce, trapped under the weight of four decidedly-not-light children, thought about making a wheezing plea for his ribs, and decided to enjoy the moment.

 

 

“No.”

 

“But Father—”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

“You can’t—”

 

“This is my bed.  I am drawing the line.”

 

“You let Drake onto the bed!”

 

“He’s my son.”

 

“But they—”

 

“I said no, Damian.”

 

Five minutes later, Bruce was glaring at the cat curled up on his chest as Titus snuffled happily next to Damian.

 

“I swear, if you get that cow up here, I’m kicking all of you out.”

 

 

Notes:

Some cute art of the family cuddles by screechinginconfused!

Tim running experiments on Bruce's bed. [Batcellanea ch29.]

Me: this is fluff!
Also me: *has to make a reference to Jason's death*

Works inspired by this one: